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Play Me

I want to be your guitar
so you can
play me.
Press me tight
and I won't make a noise. Or will I?

If I were your guitar,
we would make beautiful music together.
You would slide your calloused
fingers down my taut
strings
and I would hum in a joyous explosion of music.

If I were your guitar,
I'd want you to
f**** me.
But that would be weird.

You can strap me on and touch me
up and down.

Tune me, baby.
Play me.
Strum me.
Stroke me.
"Oh, yes. Music is love, baby."

If I were your guitar,
I'd be in your arms always,
throbbing at your fingertips.
You'd be such a happy musician,
and I, I would be your guitar.

Fall, 2000 Hippie Hill Boone, NC B. Faulkner

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bfaulkner's recent Blog entry.	Blah and bleh, clues to my blues ( 64 reads)	Thursday, November 12, 2009 (22:24:12)
It rained yesterday. It was gray. It was cold. I was off work for Veteran's Day. I should have been joyous, but I felt the Plath bearing down on me. When I read her unabridged journals, I thought, "What the hell does this woman have to be so sad about? Just get over yourself!" However, now that I have so recently been overhwelmingly sad for no good reason, I realize what a feat it is that she could write at all and her descriptions of how she felt were so apt. I felt so down that I couldn't write at all. I wanted to, but I can't go to the page with my negativity, which is why I go for so long without writing at times. I have the hardest time being honest with myself and writing in my journal requires that. I spent yesterday sleeping and weeping and feeling like a loser for setting such a bad example for my children. But I just couldn't dig myself out of the doldroms. I felt like some huge monster was sitting on my chest--cataclysmic--and I literally did not have the energy to move. Here is the one thing I did manage to write before I gave in to my despair and took some Nyquil: Sometimes when I'm egotistical I feel phenomenal-- phenomonal woman-- but now there's rain in my soul, this dampness that molds ruining all the good things. Just a small gem, but I hope it captures that mood swing that overcame me. B

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Praise Be

To hear my momma tell it, I popped outta her full grown, like Athena,
& full of wisdom
suckled from her teat, as Juliet’s nurse so brags.

In her eyes, there’s nothing I can’t do.
I am five foot nine, a towering Amazon over my momma’s red head,
She cuts me down to size and lifts me up, too.
I am as high as the tobacco stalks that filled me with obsidian hate in the summer of my tenth year.
I am as tall as a tottering clown on stilts at the county fair,
Each pernicious obstacle I claw my way over
adds another step to my stool.

I am an Irish cream girl, freckled by the white diamond heat of a North Carolina sun in the summer time.
I am North Carolina, born & corn bread!
Homemade biscuits, pork n’ beans, garden maters.

I am dirt poor and family rich,
Never hungry for love, attention, or faith,
but sometimes starved for more simple things
like crackers.

I feel a bit of that Irish spirit in me,
An elfish knave urging me to kick off my shoes
& twirl & dance a jig in a frolicking fury.
I am a purple princess fairy with tourmaline wings, brown and barefooted, feet barely grazing the ground,
Just barely.

My Cherokee beats a war cry in my veins,
lights a peace pipe in my heart.
My blackness from the slave days curves in my hips,
shapes my lips.

I awake with the weeping sunrise & play in the monkey rain.
Red clay clings to me,
Speaks to me,
Is me.
I walk through it,
Proud,
One step at a time,
Steadily, careful not to get sucked into the mire—walking through it is good enough for me.
But sometimes I shrug off cloying caution and do a high step skip across the surface.

I am.
I am.

October 25 2007 Ocracoke

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Love your avatar, Excellent job in your web page... Maya


Scar cut deep.
Deeply personal and alive with emotion. Nice work.
William

http://orchidmask.blogspot.com/


Love your profile pic and your writing style. Looking forward to more of your work.

Jack

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