[Some] Early Words
by Sadelle McVie
Copyright © 2013 Allegory Pie, Seattle, WA
All rights reserved.
- Somewhere Bent
- Swimming Hole
- To A Rainbow
- I Feel The Yuletide
- God Is Me
- The Long Run
- Unrest My Soul
- What To Say
- Standard Number Cube
I will probably add to this list until it makes up about half the material going into the Early Words collection. If you are on my mailing list I will let you know when I add something.
I have never been aware,
What on the outside seems,
But not growing there,
I played a role, not my dreams.
I begged my body to be less of
That to be or what not to be;
Just be something I can love,
Even if only by lovers seen.
So why then do I seem
With tiny little nipple knots, not
On fleshy female breasts and
That thing down there is what?
I am a natural born killer.
That instinct has never died
Time after time being teased
And other reasons cried.
When they think that I am a girly
Boy, and fag or pussy I am called,
I have to beat them all up,
And I beat them one and all.
I fight to end it at the beginning;
The judgment of my heart,
And stop what would surely bleed
My soul forever from the start.
I feel the thoughts of those
Who cannot get in my head.
In the cross-hairs of their sights
Set on seeing me quite dead.
Just because my hair and clothes
Are not in lemming conformation
To their walking talking paper
Cut-out normal expectation?
I have never been aware of,
What on the outside I must seem.
But growing up, I played the role,
By every, and all means.
I wanted to hug and hold hands
And feel what girls and women do.
But I wanted to be a super hero,
And fit in as either too.
Now I know that I am neither,
I play the game no more.
Hormones and chromosomes
Failing at my gender core.
They let me down by the norm,
And denied full compliment
Of what is boy or girl, and left me
Somewhere in the middle bent.
Into the swimming hole I dive.
I quickly feel the depth.
From that wriggling space
From that succulent dream
She comes in screaming.
Thrashing and flinging
Her arms in delight.
And I smile.
Afterwards we lie on the
Sun baked earth. I hold
Her body close. The song
Of her heart sings me
Made of mist, glowing fruit colors,
Born in the beam of a waking sun;
In the dewy lighted sky to paint
Round the dale and river that runs;
Bending over my sweet maple trees,
Filling the morning ripe to the core;
Rising up arching around and down;
Leaving stains that my brain adores.
An unseen rainbow after a storm
Is a tragic loss to unknowing eyes;
An azure sky lighted by the colored
Remains of a tempest going dry.
Drifting from the new-born day;
Traces of when everything began,
Makes my nightly hurricane still,
And unclenches my raging hands.
The sky makes light of the dark
That is never really left behind.
New rain smell dissipates and feels
Like lovers seen for the last time.
A drop of magic falls to be mine
And awaken my sleepy face.
But evaporates and fades back to
The innocence of empty space.
I loved the soft sudden greeting,
Choosing me her journey's end.
I smiled though she was leaving as
Things that can fly, usually do again.
Radiance begins, and quickly ends
Somewhere I seek but do not know;
A sun misty haze so placidly thin,
In her one-time watercolor show.
She leaves the want of love behind.
Her treasure still waits to be found.
I’m sure I’ve been to both ends now,
But only found the rainy ground.
I knew the sky would lose the light
And discolor how you and I see me.
Grayness would enjoin my essence
With traces for those who care to see.
I walked from seeing certain magic,
Armed with what must be the truth;
Leaving empty handed is not so tragic
As losing rainbows and my youth.
I looked back hoping for a glimpse of
Some remnant of when it all began.
But scattered traces are all that remain
With me, and my unclenched hands.
I feel the Yuletide flowing through me.
I feel like playing in the snow.
The arctic air is thin and growing old.
How soon the tide does go.
I feel the fine season of the Yuletide
And the crispy winter chill.
Outside children build a snowman.
Time for them is standing still.
Put another log on the languishing fire.
I’ll get a blanket for our feet.
The embers crackle a sweet promise
To sing us gently to sleep.
After solstice, long winter nights give
Over to the growing day.
Soon the snow too will be melting,
And the children gone away.
I feel the giving season’s heart.
I feel like dancing in the snow.
I celebrate that we are all together.
Alas, how soon the Yuletide goes.
But for now our fire flickers in delight,
And a blanket wraps our feet.
Whisper sweet how much we love
Before our fire sleeps.
The only god I really know
lives behind my eyes you see.
And you see too, so you too
are god to you.
Are you not?
Everyone is god inside.
Even with our lids closed tightly,
our mind’s eye keeps on looking
until you close it too.
Then your faith
indeed has been blinded.
I have faith because it is I who
plainly sees through the windows
of my open soul.
To be certain, I am a
I believe in me.
The song of the soul is shouted not spoken
In the face of the wind made by the force
Of my iron horse, completely unbroken.
Come dance with me in the wind by the sea,
We’ll soar over mountains and scream down
The flats under bright lunar skies, wild and free.
Riding is flying, an orbit held just above Earth
By rubber and steel love; riding gut shaking
And quickening your new place of birth.
Alone in a river of turtles I smile. I am leery
Of cages because their captives don’t see me.
Keep constant the vigil and never grow weary.
Stretch out a long run and hope for the day,
And all that we are, and ever will be, the creed
Of my sisters and brothers, alone is our way.
I am vulnerable when I ride, my life on the line
My heart pumping fire, my lungs near
Exploding a bold apparition suspended in time.
My eyes though shielded, bleed tears of delight
In harmony with the roar of engine and
Road, and I drink the wind as my sacred rite.
We live and do what no strangled spirit dare;
Blood tingling, elbows rubbing the Reaper’s;
Living the dream here, there, and everywhere.
I ride on and in the world, never just past it.
Never looking back long, but to what lies ahead,
In total control, making it last, at long last.
A soul is created to live, love, and die in the end.
Fish swim the seas, birds fly skies, me and my
Brothers and sisters are reborn in the wind.
I raise my glass to those who too young fell
Mangled and tangled and often quite dead,
From here to where we all someday dwell.
She is all my mind and heart
And everything else to me.
She joyfully takes care of me.
She feeds and cleans my dignity.
She brings breakfast on a tray,
To start our day in bed,
And she listens to everything
I ever thought or said.
Perfection doesn’t quibble,
Save your drivel not knowing
How she dances on the wind;
A song escapes her glowing.
Each of her words grace and
Adorn my simple dreams.
With my lips I kiss her wish,
Whispering “I do” it seems.
She does a color fandango
On canvass fresco twilight.
Nothing less than what Vincent’s
Brush and palette might.
Her pencil, ink, and charcoal
Sketches tear a thousand
Known to me as her mercy
After-burned on chilly sand.
We do word puzzles over
Coffee every Sunday all the while
Hatching out our life plans
For the day. We talk of miles
We have weathered, days to
Come unfettered, maybe draw
The curtain, turn the comforter
Down exposing crimson linen.
She is the reason for my being
All my body soul and seeing.
I wish that neither of us ever
Had to grow one screaming
Second older. I despise the
Passing, and my heart showing
Me and mine, the unrest of my
Soul, I am without knowing.
She is all my mind and heart
And everything else to me.
She joyfully takes care of me.
She cooks, and feeds my sanity.
In my lies, not truth, I realize I heave
my bones beneath you and sunny skies
to feel the healing power not alone.
To save my own, I have sucked your spirit dry.
Beyond for what I could apologize.
I’m a big believer in suicide, instead of living
dead inside where from your demons you
Better dead than existing
Petrified and half alive inside.
So lead me to the abattoir, at least my body may be
eaten and not wasted on the cremator’s fire,
or buried whole in my underwear.
I don’t want to lose
I am steeped in cheap tequila, and I am still at a loss for
the gallons of syllables that should be spewing
from my polluted head.
I am not clever, or quick of wit, but a steady white-line walker
of everything I talk, despite my loosely liquored tongue
slurring sloppy poppycock.
But I need paper and pencil with a good eraser to say to
her what I mean to her because I change her
mind so often.
So just let me squeeze out a few more small lines of gibberish
and dribble them on the silence of my blank and page,
then rip it out and crumble forth.
So many poor paper pieces slain thus, and thrown so far
because she makes words evaporate from the pan
head gone dry from drinking.
Alas, if I just let it fly, most surely she would smile wry,
and turn away from me and the arrogance bubbling
from my bottleneck and mouth, out
onto the floor for someone else to soak up. Sop, sop,
Get the mop or perhaps make more small talk
as the bedroom clock tick tocks
away another chance to fuck the night up, up and away
I try not to spill too much of my entrails and try
even harder not to laugh if I do.
Every night I write to stop me putting out the
Lights, and drink until I find the words, or drown.
But on this eve of despair, the elixir fails me well,
And the demon urges me to double down.
"Go away!" I scream into the depths of me.
Withdraw your fingers clutched around my rage,
And give my heart a break, so my hand can lift
The pen, and defile the purity of my blank page.
In my unaspirated mind, choked by bitter blood
I quibble with the point of my keeping on.
And on this night of screaming desperation,
I leave to chance what may be right or wrong.
I shake and roll a single standard number cube,
Rather than toss my last silver dollar, to decide
If I will drink and scribble myself to sleep again,
Or commit myself to a gruesome suicide.
An odd number shall equal death by gunshot;
Lots of blood and splattered cranial slop.
An even roll will mean pick up the pen and write,
And drink, until on my parquet floor I flop.
As the luck of fate shall have it, the rolling die
Comes to a stop, showing two black telling spots.
My neighbors get to rest in peace (instead of me),
Not awakened by the crack of my last shot.
But the lure and promise of release still lingering
And mingling with my smoke flavored breath,
Finds my thoughts somewhere before Neverland,
Before the womb, in a time I call prenatal death.
“Leave me now!” I beg of my jaded spirit, before
The rising sun brings its own special brand of rage.
Save my brains from blowing out, by drinking
Myself quietly from this tormented human cage.
So I write something banal, and cannot turn the
Sticky page, and I spew spittle on the paper dream.
Wet from fingers licked, still the page unyielding,
Though I pinch, twist, weep, and scream.
Ripping out the offending page, I need fresh white
Blankness to lay my entrails neatly, then again, from
Within my darkness where I dare not look, a word
Slithers up and out on my foul breath “Come.”
Come to where you will not look and let your number
Be oddly up before you wake tomorrow. Save your
polished floor from your crimson gore. Slip away by
Drinking every drop; leaving silently, me no more.
But no, the one die roll denied my quest for peace.
So with shot glass tipping I sit sipping of course,
And I write the same ending to the same story
That I always write, quite trite, feeble and forced…
“Leave me when you know I need you most,
Blah, blah, blah. I love you more than scribbled
Words can tell. Or someone else, just as well.”
Or I may just cheat myself and roll the die again.