The Handle

You didn’t believe me until you finally did.

You didn’t deceive me until you could.

Wash away the dirt from these fingers-

they have been deep inside bloody spaces,

thinking all the while they held an ancient, sacred, primal chalice,

but coming away with a ragged Tampon River.

The shelter came again after the storm

as we all weathered it as best we could and soldiered on.

Nevermore haunted by nightmare visions

of silver cupped lattice workings.

Mountaintop chills at the peak of loneliness sometimes suffice;

better than death at times;

better than fake happiness.

With strained cheek muscles, she taught

lessons on how to stay smiling

even though the worst pain lies within.

Playing a clown without a mask,

the makeup, lip gloss ballerina

dances across the stage in wisps,

swirling once again to keep me hinged-

attached at the hip with wet tears,

weeping for release from this physical prison.

The Sex Monster got greedy with lust

and held on much longer than karma allowed.

Couldn’t stand on soapbox bullshit.

Couldn’t cope with grad school misfit.

Couldn’t deal with freak out social scenes.

Couldn’t handle her flying off the fucking handle.

Played that game already as a child;

sometimes we don’t have to press repeat,

so just move along to the vibration’s beat

and weave the web of synchronicity.

Soon enough you’ll find your Pagan Goddess Queen.

 

 

--Scott Thomas Outlar