Confessions of a Temporal Lobe

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59432574849205412122012-01-21T13:16:07.922-08:00Confessions of a Temporal LobeLife. Death and everything in between.Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.comBlogger91100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-41450117225664643332011-09-11T12:30:00.000-07:002011-09-11T12:31:40.170-07:00Yawn

Evil has no Country of origin.

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-32601595618814701242011-01-26T14:25:00.000-08:002012-01-20T10:59:35.130-08:00The Boat Builders Party

The boat builder has the hips of a woman.Gentle slopes that curve, waist to thigh.On top of his head spring fine tuned curls.From a lush green corner I watch the boat builder being read, a riot act of some sort, by a petite brunette. I watch as the pressure of her words, land blow after blow, on the boat builder’s chin.Suddenly, I feel a strong urge to take the mounting pressure off of the boat

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-37801202325110757392010-05-28T12:41:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:10:20.412-08:00++++++Holy Trinity++++++

Living under Gods vast eyeI serve the Holy TrinityOf me myself and II abhor those who deplore meOpenly contriving their demiseJoyfully collecting their insolent remiseI am faithful only to myselfBleeding the souls of othersSatisfies my need for wealth

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-5605993172473646682009-08-09T13:55:00.000-07:002012-01-20T11:30:58.709-08:00Diamond Lotus

You are the lotusmybroken diamond*your prismvitalityshinesfrom you*thoughno sunlightfinds youhere inthe depthsofthis forgotten mire*How crystal transparentthat heartof youfragile diamond*a flowering beautyin thisswamped sloughof misery*You shine alonein thisunjeweled night *and youshamethe stars*who have forgottenthe hauntedplaces

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-57413004780838421512009-08-09T13:42:00.000-07:002012-01-21T13:12:58.701-08:00Holy Grail

I place my fathersbroken wine gobletinto my Mothers chipped cupIt works nicely as a replacementfor the goblets broken stemI pick upa broken china plate from the floorand with the help of one of great grandmotherssilver butter knivesI cut the dry bread into thin slicesAnd scrape the moldfrom the small bit of cheeseI pour the bitter wineinto my mother- father holy grailTo my lips I raise this

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-11610355917675372002009-08-09T13:33:00.000-07:002012-01-21T13:16:07.944-08:00Bohemian Sundays

On Sunday afternoonsI crank the VictrolaTo perfectionSergi RachmaninoffsDark whispersFill the room.Into my body flowsLiszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No.2Gentle are the fingersThat bring my toesTo pointI must concedeTo the music’s full needOf my passionMy grandmother yellsIn broken English“You should not valtz on your toes that vay”!I pay no heedTo her wordsMephistopheles has offeredTo be my waltz

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-11223230752608666442009-03-07T16:41:00.001-08:002012-01-20T10:37:26.751-08:00Floating Flowers

My Great GrandmotherFrench Indian Border ReiverBare feetCarry restless legsThrough darkest back wood nightWhere stripped bare treesBid stars to shine on high so brightSweat laden chestCauses cross to cling on breastWhile white breathOn winter windIn panic comes to restMother straps sleepless babeOver mad pounding of heart in chestClosing her eyesShe floats down streamPast empty burning nestsIn

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-47249575780701390862009-03-07T14:31:00.000-08:002012-01-20T10:38:29.632-08:00Rutting Bull Dance

Golden brown hairworn in a loose braidtickles my backMy eyesare bohemian blueI am 5 foot 7 inchesand weigh 150 poundsof solid lean muscleI am built like a manwith large teenage breastsMy nails grow long like stonefrom the tips of my fingersMy hands are callousedfrom swinging a double edge axewith deadly forceI wear a size 9 work bootcovered in red mudI smell like leatherrolled corn and oatsmixed

Confessions of a Temporal Lobehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07363039533678460526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5943257484920541212.post-53920110487252646752009-02-17T23:03:00.001-08:002012-01-20T10:11:10.132-08:00She Said

She saidI believe that for every bus missedsomewhere out there a train gets caughtand it isn't what you are not orwhat you think you haven't gotShe saidI might breathe out this breath that I'm breathin' in but its only in an effort to resurrect this life I'm livin'She said nothing outside my front or back doorshocks or appallsmy mind any moreor at least that’s what I tell myselfas I drag my heart

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