The shadow of time hovered

Behind a solemn moon, blue

Hung heavy and low beneath

God’s loud laugh waking

The belly roll of sablebush

Rolling high above my wake

Just out-of-reach, and calling to

The angel breath fallen stale on

Your warm breath, against

My neck is exposed and open.

I spread myself like ashes

in the dark

the warmest snow known to men,

these grey and red-colored flakes

made from the remains

of my soul,

( of my shell-shaped heart )

can you see it?

can you feel it?

tell me that you do

tell me it runs through your bloodstream

that it ignites your bones

that it paints crimson threads

between my fingertips

and yours

it's those stars that speak of flame

and dust

that love that exhales peacefully

in the midst of chaos

that sigh of relief

when the last galaxy in you has exploded

that exhale of surrender

bringing you to your knees

( multiple colored reflections

of the universe's song

vibrating inside your core

like a melody long forgotten

but forever present,

the most familiar echo

the sweetest whisper

that primal fire of the first breath

that synergy of all things that has led

me

to you )

I spread myself like ashes

in the dark, my love

the warmest snow known to men ,

I paint my bones with the black dust

from long-gone heartbeats

of Nebula's once golden tears

and the diamond longing

of all the Supernovas that came before me

their ink-dark powder covering my skin

so I can imitate the night sky

and shine

like never-ending clusters

of falling stars ,

so when I jump

into the abyss above

I will find my way to you

I will find my way to my other half of the night sky

I will find you there covered

in the same dust

skin shimmering with the softest embrace

of the cosmos that is now also mine,

I feel you now

you're calling my name

murmurning it so gently

against the loudness

that surrounds me

against the always present buzzing

of the human kind

I hear you

and my legs start running

my feet thud a rhythm against the ground

I jump

I leap

I fall

breathlessly and helplessly

into your sphere

like an unstoppable force never to be tamed

I take your hand

and our fingertips touch

the red thread connecting us

swirling

and twisting

around our wrists

gravity no longer holding it back

( like an underwater current,

so gentle in its caress )

there is no beginning to it

nore end

just a gentle string

moving to an elegant dance

a unique choreography designed

for the hearts beating

under our ribs

like pulsating drums

for the souls breathing between our scars

and hopes

like the softest

breeze of a summer's night

my sky whispers to yours

home is here

home is now

home is with you

Lately

I'm finding faith

Between

Questions

And

Self-laced intentions,

Like a dot to dot

Painting insanity

Or something else.

So I interrogate

My eyes

And why they bend

And spin

Light as they do.

Is anything real?

So I will follow

my greed

Into the foundation

Of everything

I will never know,

And create night

With eyelids and hope.

And I will see her

As more than

An outline,

When I can trace

nothing

But darknes,

Peeling like scars

From from the center

Of me.

I peak back out

At the dawn.

And i wish I

I could see everything

Like this.

And follow the greed.

The truth is,

Being wrong

Is fucking

Beautiful.

Because she looks good

In both outfits.

If only I could

Also

See

Myself.

Dapper as fuck

In my confusion.

Maybe truth

Would never

Drop beneath the horizon.

But when it comes

To her,

You always squint

At the fucking sun.

She’ll miss me

When the leaves are betrayed

by the branches

She’ll see me

As they’re shook loose

in their golden prime

She’ll want me

as they’re swept

from the trunk, groveling

She’ll need me

At January’s first howl

When her limbs will shiver

In a voice

That isn’t mine

The world is spinning out of control with wars and rumors of wars—but that’s not the topic of conversation in the Lamb family. Why? Because we lost a friend this week, a chocolate lab named Bailey.

She was friendly. Confident. Fun-loving.

As a puppy, Bailey was awkwardly curious, in that way only labs can be. The most serious exploration became a humorous escapade. Puffy toys turned into willing accomplices. Slippery floors transformed into a center-stage.

Bailey belonged to my son Jesse and his lovely wife Shawn. When they lived in Florida, I visited their home each day and let their pup into the backyard where we played Frisbee-toss over and over and over again.

She loved that game.

When she got tired, she hunkered down under a tiny tree for shade and a rest.

When the kids moved “up north,” Bailey tagged along. She was equally at home playing in the snow on the streets of New York City as she was running in the sand under the Tampa Bay sun.

When the kids moved back to Florida, they brought with them a little Lamb named Clara. It wasn’t long before they had another little Lamb—this one named Isabella, nicknamed Bell.

Bell, Clara, and Bailey got along just fine. Playing together. Napping together. The perfect little family. But you could tell Bailey was getting older (15) and slower. Visits to the vet didn’t seem to help. After all, age catches up with pups as well as people—and it shows.

Dylan Thomas wrote a line in “And Death Shall Have No Dominion” that seems appropriate:

“Though lovers be lost love shall not.”

Bailey may be lost, but not our love for her.

The world is spinning out of control with wars and rumors of war — but that’s not the topic of conversation in the Lamb family. Why? Because we lost a friend this week … and we miss her.

October 16

2005

a happy day for some

a dreaded one for others

yet none of those people

are ones I know today

I also assumed

I would be so successful

famous by 11

is what I told myself

I'm still a nobody

but a nobody with a drive

but sometimes

it leaves

And I'm left purposeless

but after those lows

come the highs

come the late night calls

and the car rides

and the smiles and laughs

a berry cake

and tomato soup

so 18 years ago today

a star was born

but not one of talent

but one of light

and potential

potential gratitude

potential fame

potential happiness

potential love

potential

18 years ago

the potential to be the good

was born

happy bday to me! right?

In truth, I want the least amount of fuss. Incineration is the fastest, least expensive, and the ashes can be scattered in all the places I love. But, obviously, that is no fun...

Ms. Lil Enigma, I see you tapping your sequin pencil on the marbled counter and "Ahem'ing," about all the wild and cost-free fantastical options. Let's make it a party, right?

So, it will in that case need to be Sci-Fi. We'll need to discuss the finer details of teleportation and time-travel. Naturally, it wouldn't be a party if Everybody-and-their-Significant-Others weren't duly invited. We'll have to raise the dead. I mean the dearly departed, that we might all be politely reunited in this moment of celebratory crisis. Some of these will need to be disinterred from graveyards in Europe and some reconstructed from ashes, such as my father, whose remains at the behest of his sister (my aunt Teresa) have been separated into multiple jars, and by his request of which were scattered (partly) on the plot of land that he adored so much and had named like a woman, Lotta. Yes, I was forced to compromise with his remains, and I know that he will be understanding that some individuals have trouble letting go of the material, forsaking the immaterial. To be sure, we will have to work on a degree of solid materialization, as he never met my husband and son and I'd like for them to shake hands at this moment and hug. Definitely, we'll be speaking in Non-Babylonian tongues, so that everyone understands everyone whatever, their native language. Scour the lands, for every last soul that I ever had contact with, especially those with "unresolved" issues.

Now is the time, right? to lay these to rest.

If we're all meeting up, for one helluva night, then cremation at this point is out of the question, and we must have a viewing. Make it good Lil Engima. Have fun. I leave you free range to make up my face however you like. It's always been a makeup free blank canvas, so just for tonight have at it and do some smokey eyeshadow, and cat's liner. Make the lips sharp with a gloss to last for each parting casket kiss. I'm ignorant on all these details, but I know there is some sealer, and if I remember vaguely, you put foundation on first to make the lipstick better adhere. Darken under the cheeks and eye sockets for drama, to ensure that romantic lovelorn, knocking on death's door look. Prop the eyes open if you have to, add whatever drops in there needed to keep them fresh and dewy.

I would like for you to personally paint the coffin, no the sarcophagus, with my hand carefully cradled in your own so that I can have the illusion of having taken part in this most important task, which while alive would be a morbid undertaking. But once, dead as such, you-and-I will truly enjoy the team effort. Well, it might be a challenge for you, but know that I will be cheering everybody on in spirit. I'd leave it up to fate, but if I can put in a little artistic direction, I'd prefer something cryptic, with coded letters, hidden images, optical illusions, a little tribal, something robotic, hot/cold gauges, ambient lighting. It will be lonely in there for awhile.

As for the wake, girl, of course I'll need a dress! Something with sculptural cleavage, like they fix up for the Miss Universe pageant, because my husband would love that; and do show some leg by all means! who says we have to be all shrouded and solemn for such an occasion? Heels please, since we're reclining. Five-or-six-inch-stilettos.

I have never understood, in my extended family, the obsession with eating at funerals. We'll forgo this incongruent custom, and instead we'll have a basic communion. Wine and a chocolate wafer. A sip and bite of each will be so luxurious and fulfilling that it will be remembered as a religious experience long after I am forgotten. Everyone will only recall spending a blissful evening recollecting under the stars, with sparkling bubbly people whose words poured like wisdom and understanding. A damn good time. People will write inspired tomes for years to come.

To further ensure that, we'll have some freebies, because everyone loves giveaways. I don't want to say booths, that would suggest a vending atmosphere. No, I'm visualizing more of a labyrinth garden setting where we accidentally traverse from balcony to grotto to water fountain; and we might be welcome for instance to take: a polaroid with loved ones, a precious energy laden pebble as memento, a stimulating scent on instant recall, and a sip of rejuvenation to last forever. You know, Life changing take aways.

I'll be damn sorry to miss it! Lil if there's no other way, low tech, please at least personally escort me around on a stiff plank with peg board and wheels so that I can pretend to see the scene. Otherwise put some juice or something into my system so I can make a standing ovation before we shut the sarcophagus and take it to the secret chambers of Chichén Itzá. Meaning at the mouth of the enchanted waters. Formerly known as Uuc Yabnal or Uc Abnal. The Uuc-variations meaning Seven, Yabnal meaning House, Abnal meaning Ruling-Line. I don't know what it is about the Mayans, but it will thrill immediate loved ones to bury me and my cats there. I am certain it would please my father and my mother-in-law and be compelling to my husband's mystical sensitivity and my son's wild adventurous spirit. They'll make summer pilgrimages, and in the meantime pour over maps thumbtacking where exactly it is rumored that the body is buried.

A chamber is not empty! There will be a glass drafting table. The one I'll get for Christmas. There'll be an exquisite full spectrum lamp, architectural. Paints, brushes, paper, pens, a constantly updated laptop--

Come

see the portal . . .

beneath it,

it is,

dimly,

a ghostly white,

in the night

stars illuminate

into the vast

above,

bright,

sparkling,

pinpoints

of platinum chrome,

set in myriad array,

in the midnight,

'tis bluish black

in the beauty

in that setting,

set above

angels ascending,

some descending

some with swords

sheathed,

at their white robed hips

others them,

pointed upward

and sideways,

ever turning,

vigilant,

set,

there might be,

that,

approach of danger

for,

from this staircase

heaven to earth,

like a dna helix,

they arrive,

downward flowing,

in motion slow,

for sake of mortal eye,

to see,

though,

they be able

to exceed the speed of light;

in the twinkle of an eye

these angels,

ministers of fiery spirit,

/for God can bend time,

for He created it,

for us to live in it/

their mission's intent,

to deliver the lost,

the needy,

the pained,

humans lost,

pummeled,

tormented,

by spirits evil

some of these

ministers of flaming fire,

on their journey upward,

servants of the Most High,

expectant to receive orders new,

their mission orders

being now complete, . . .

those descending

by orders heaven's throne given

their mission,

to strengthen and defend,

humans made in God's image

be lifted up,

healed

and guided,

further forward onward

to the spirit

to bring us to the knowledge,

that is more real than the material

they carry to the fallen,

life endowed,

light divine infused,

to carry the soul,

though dragged by the flesh,

to the goal

the finish line

to the spirit afterlife,

for the spirit

is more real than the material

See the portal

its beam of white light

in the distant line of sight

fixed between eternal view

and rock and earth of carnal eye,

to infinity,

the unattainable distant end

for us,

but not for them

for they are made of spirit,

able to enter heaven thereby

for the spirit,

is more real than the material

Watch the watchers,

of the sphere we live upon

know that many other ones abide;

they stride,

all across the great divide,

that separates the heavens

and the earth,

upon the spinning globe

all hidden from the sight,

of those unwilling

or unable,

to see,

busy with their concrete walls

of work and world,

hidden by the spell

of a fallen angel,

turned rebellious dragon

soon the beams of light

connecting heaven's throne with troubled earth,

will open up to common view

all will see

the sudden break of light unseen

unknown by all who sleep

they will see

the reason for the portal streams

sudden shakings

sudden warring sounds

fits of terror for the blind

for the onslaught in the dark

against the dark,

in dealing with the enemy of man

waging war against,

the thefts and deaths

and magnifies of lies

rumblings and sounds,

winds and storms

fire and ice

wicked deeds exposed

reality reversed

made plain as day

the truth will overwhelm,

revealed like a pill

see it all stand still

'til justice come

His will be done

as the darkness comes on down

to shake and wake

to sudden day

where the first is last;

and last is first,

what's sown

is to be reaped

vengeance too

the truth again unveiled

satan's lie outburst

his wretched guts spilled out,

so that the goods,

taken of the thief,

be returned,

to the ones from where took,

paid seven fold

Come see the portal

beneath it

dimly,

a ghostly white,

in the night

stars illuminate

into the vast,

above,

bright,

sparkling

pinpoints of platinum chrome,

set in myriad array,

in the midnight bluish black

Come see a new day dawn,

The Coming of the LORD

Dear Sexy Minds That Rule Our World:

By request, here's a, hmmm, well...a warm and special story about a stroll to the lake under moonlight; contemplation, introspection on a certain level, and quite possibly something else...

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vnThXeTVNo

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team