Paddle Span
He rowed JFK
out to the same reef,
he told us,
and they watched the sun set
together, he said,
as we sloshed our
unaccustomed bodies
into the outrigger.
His face was
ancient as time,
timeless as beauty,
creased in ravines of sun
and wind,
his grin undaunted by
two missing front teeth.
My new husband,
rich, white, and flabby
took the front
and between us
the gnarled and knotted
muscles under that dark skin
rippled in rhythm to the pounding
of the surf
and slid us out into the blue waters
of the caribbean.
And I envied him,
for he held his world in his eyes
and measured its breadth
by the span of his paddle.
And I envy him still,
loves and lives later,
as I slip my paddle into the dark water
and slide my pirogue
through duckweed and lily pad
into the silence of the swamp
where spanish moss hangs
from the canopy of cypress
in cloistering curtains
to hide me from a world
measured by bytes and jets,
a world that I once sought to hold,
a world so large and heavy
that now holds me
as surely as he held his,
a world that I cannot measure
with a lifetime of rowing.
One, instead, that measures me,
in cold dispassionate meter...
and I envy him, still....
for he held his world in his eyes
and measured its breadth
by the span of his paddle...
and he knew the worth of
a sunset
was more than a man
could own.
Acid on Silk
The weakness of the flesh
crawls womlike
writhing like maggots into
an agonized awareness,
sucking me into a darkness where
the red heat of a thousand exploding suns
scorches purple skies,
searing the skin like
curling leaves of banned books burning,
crisping against the whiteness of acceptability,
of sef-respect.
Throw me in the flames.
Let me burn into ashes,
and scatter me into the wind.
Then lock the gates, baby, so I can never
get back in.
I am acid on silk, raging into the night,
swinging swords of denial in rampant arcs
until the battle becomes rabid,
foaming hunger into blood
and reason into marrow that pounds in rhythm
to the ticking of a clock with no hands..
with no face...just a blankness that
knows no time,
And I must keep the beat,
must cool the flames that consume the strength
of legions of promises made again and again,
bending bars of will like willows
in the force of a hurricane of need.
I must hit hard
strike once more, and once more, and once more
to fill the void of this infinity of emptiness
undulating within me like a roiling ocean.
Yes, throw me in the flames
let me burn into ashes,
then scatter me into the wind,
for I am acid on silk..
and every drop of me that falls
eats away at the fabric of life
splashing a bit farther each time
coming closer and closer to the things I keep
protected within my heart,
those things that must never be touched
by ugliness, by pain, by the darkness
that has slipped inside
and taken up residence
within the walls of this once mighty fortress.
Lock the gates, baby, for the wolves are hungry
and I must join them
howling my madness into the pale moon,
tearing at the haunches of humanity,
dripping fangs sinking deep
into the soft glow of warmth and comfort,
ripping apart the lambs and devouring the shepherd,
leaving only bloody remnants scattered
over fields that I once tended with such care,
nourished with such gentle precision.
Fields that now lay fallow
as my demon bubbles into ambrosia
and flows like wine into these ever-thirsting rivers.
And I am acid on silk,
Throw me in the flames.
Let me burn into ashes
and scatter me into the wind....
then lock the gates, baby, so I can
never get back in..........
but know,
that I
will always
love you.
Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.
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