Thursday, October 29, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: I'm Painting Again

©I’m Painting Again
from Letters I Never Sent to You

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

I shouldn’t tell you this, babe, but she started eating herself again.
I think I’ll have to let her die.

Someone told me a lusty story; I thought of you and the way
you stretch time into a thin line between super unrealities.
I’m still telling those stories of you and me... they change
as I change my mind, but isn’t that part of the art of storytelling?
I’m still working on a method to conflate the tales of you and me yet
keep the personal considerations obscurant and not lose reader interest.

Remember that time we had to tunnel through successive ruinations of
our nightly plans. I wanted to cry. How do I diminish the distance
 between us now?

I’m painting with a sense of calm these days, without the bloodletting,
and with that stability of painting people whom I’m showing as
morally sound, people with multifaceted lives. Their stories have
solvable problems to tell.

I’m still afraid of that word. Yes, that one: goodbye. So, I won’t say it.
It may be an alteration of G-d be with ye, but it’s also a conclusion.
I don’t want us to conclude, so I’ll end with All My Love.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona Poetry: I Think I Know You Are Everything Before We Name It

©I Think I Know You Are Everything Before We Name It
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

I think I know where you hide.
When I was a child, you hid
beyond where neglected fences
around the park’s hinterland
disappeared into culverts and
darkness. You lurked where the
forest became too thick to
see into. I’m duly afraid to
admit I saw you just beyond
the close of the horizon; you were
concerned only with the
business of your existence and
the coming war to end all wars.

I think I know what you are.
But, that doesn’t mean you
do not exist. You do, especially
to those who claim they’ve looked
for you —others didn’t want to
join you; they wanted to claim
you... At least, that was the whispers
among them. I know they want to
fortify the border. But, we know;
don’t we? You and I can never
escape each other since you are
found in me and I in you.

Monday, October 26, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Seriously, Darling, I Don’t Deserve You


Now, multiply that by infinity and realize it is inescapable!

What Pain Would That Be?

©Seriously, Darling, I Don’t Deserve You
Is this because you believe I love you too much?
I don’t. And, I don’t hate myself, so this cannot
be psychosomatic, nor is this fire that consumes
my brain imaginary. I am not delusional.

What if you’re wrong and I never cared about you?
What if I never had any empathy for you?
What if I loathed your ambition, your duty?
I did. I do. I loathe them and your accomplices.
I loathe the fear you bring and the plans you wrap me in.

Damn it! Take back this harrowing torment
you gifted me. This relentless throbbing
behind my eyes that proclaims you won’t
stop until I relent— I never will. I will fight you.
even though the battle is tedious and painful, I will win.

You’re nothing more than a banality dancing on
every nerve ending and causing my sensitivities
to betray me; you defecator on my emotions.
Darling, if I could leave you I would, but I am too weak.
Be gone! Show me the mercy I cannot show you.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Migraine disorder affects 12% of people in the U.S., mostly women, and its symptoms can be debilitating.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Mona Arizona's Poem HE

 “Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.” — The Sandman by Neil Gaiman

Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

He owned me like a watercolor,
or Sumi splashed across rice paper,
or a tumbling star thrown into the night
sky; just as one of a pair of dice
hits the edge hard, I rolled back stained
and every part of me vibrated from the
laughter of the next apple on the tree
who whispered in the mouse’s ear.

He cataloged my thoughts and moves
then set me to one side on the library
shelf of lust and love, mystery unsolved,
but too hyped up on the latest color
to recognize my tortured ring tone. Don’t
shed tears for this latest martyr; send me
to bed to dream of the end of monsters,
the Frankenstein monster of amativeness.

He bound me to his canvas with vermilion
games that mimicked expired antibiotics
and post-dated bit-coin hopes.
Be suspicious of crooked smiles,
of cowboys bearing apples, and of
wolves who enter a city of cobwebs
and lack the atlas of the spine, too 
afraid to beard the lion in her own den.

He emptied me like a worn suitcase,
strung me tauter than a violin’s strings,
yet never cherished me as though
I were one more hour of a Spring
day blended with the last days of
Autumn. The fat lady sang and
flashed him bits of cheesecake, but the
frightened mouse had screwed his last.