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.

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.

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

IMAGINE THE WORST PAIN EVER...EVER!

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.

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

©He

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.