Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “January, 2013”

The Death of the Sonnet has been Prematurely Reported

With much thanks to  Curio Poetry who recently published a double sonnet of mine, Duplex.

Curio

If you have the time, or simply love poetry,  head over to Curio’s wordpress blog and check it out.

world art show

and im left in envy of shoes

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legs by peter kellet

Emotionless Poet

The addict psychoanalyzes me.  Group was where he saw people take hammers to themselves shattering all over the linoleum floor inside Red Door Rehab.  He’d watch them glue the pieces back together, leaving out what hurt, to be better men and women.  So I’m an easy read.  I’m the member of the group that never shares.  The one that refuses to acknowledge my short comings, the part of me I  have to break to put back together.  He would hate me in group, because my stoicism mocks him.  He works through every emotion, greets it, feels it, talks about it, shares it, and then accepts it, where I don’t have an emotion.

He sucks in more air than his newly drug free lungs can handle and exhales in anger and exasperation.  Poets have emotions, deep bleeding emotions that boil over with no warning spilling on every unexpecting thing in its path they cry over dead possums and laugh hysterically just because the sun came up, as if no one knew it would. For poets every moment is a tragedy; every moment is a triumph. But not for me he observes. And so he has been testing his theory on and off for the past nine months when I would bother to see him.  He once told  me he loved me and it was no different then when he said good morning.  His next attempt was telling me he had to leave me and I emoted nothing so he came back.  Then there was the attempt to see anger  surface when he said I was meaningless sex, a body, any would do; I just left the room and made breakfast.  Now he has given up.  He can’t do this anymore.  He can’t stay in a relationship that is emotionless.  He can’t use me for sex, just because in the moment it feels right.  He needs to feel that I’m in it.  That there are emotions he is feeding, that he is being fed.  When I don’t respond he becomes angry.  He’s a guitar player. He writes music.  He knows nothing good is ever written unless you have lived the emotion, and he is tired of checking for breath.  I am his failure.  A poet without emotions is an anomaly, a creation mistake.  He pounds his fist against the table and yells maybe bringing his fist down on my face will shock me into a reaction.  Maybe if he screams loud enough my heart will beat again, blood pulse, a pressure found.

He doesn’t know, others have done all this before.  He is not a pioneer, special, an anomaly.  He is every reason I write and don’t emote.  It’s not  that I don’t feel anything.  I feel everything.  It’s that he doesn’t deserve those feelings.  He hasn’t earned the right to know what makes my heart beat, skin crawl, breath gasp.  He does not merit a poem, let alone the poet that could create it.

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New Year Parties that Were & Weren’t

Monday night around 8pm the Peacock calls telling me I should pick him up.  We should ring in the New Year together.   Talk about getting back together.  I haven’t spoken to him in a few months.  He has left messages now and then, reminding me what I’m worth, telling me that no one else will want me, but even those had stopped a month ago. It’s funny to me that he knows so little about me.  If he would have ever listened he would have known I don’t drive on holidays, I tend to avoid driving on regular days.

It’s a shame he never listened.  He would have known I dislike holiday parties, all have a weird history for me.  The last New Year’s party I went to, I went with my best friend, at the time, and the man from work that was my best friend there.  Later that night I found the man I was there “with” or  “for” in a corner with another woman. I just left, it wasn’t an official date anyhow, we were going as a group.  No loss at all.  But in the process there was a loss–my cell phone and it cost me $250.  Oh well.

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The New Year’s Party I remember fondly was with Doug. My friends and I went to San Francisco to visit another friend, who had moved with his partner.  It was a disastrous trip, that featured Doug cartwheeling down a Catholic church Aisle, and tongue pierced kisses with fake camels in nativity scenes.  Those were highlights.  We arrived late, a delay, we were told, because of bad weather (I still contend the pilot was drunk and they needed another and we had to wait for his arrival, but all unsubstantiated).  We arrived late so there was no food, but a plethora of alcohol.  That didn’t seem like a horrible idea until hunger hit.   Poor Doug was relegated to sleeping on the floor next to a cat litter box, where Kris and I had the pullout bed.

No matter we made it through the days and then there was New Years.  We knew no one at the party we ended up at that night. Kris, Andy, and Peter were there but they had migrated and found people to chat up, whereas Doug and I had each other. Somewhere Doug an I heard that whatever you were holding onto at midnight, when the New Year knocked you down, would be what you spent the rest of the year with.    We found a bottle of Spanish champagne and sat on a sofa.  Took out cash from our pockets and held hands.  We waited like we waited for our flight.  We laughed and giggled and let time past. When the clock was counting down our last seconds of the year, we hugged, the champagne between us, the money in our hands, and no one else in the room.  Each tick of the secondhand solidifying our friendship. It was the best New Years Party I ever attended.

So when the Peacock wants to go out, on his terms, I know for sure he is not what I want to be holding when the clock strikes midnight.  He is not what I want to spend my next year with.

Resolutions Be Damned

Last year I sat with my friend, Jeanette, in the back booth of an iHop discussing resolutions and the coming year.  Later we would pen out resolutions for 2012.  Not a solitary one did I keep, and I have no regrets at all about my lack of fortitude or will power as it were.    This year i will not make any resolutions.  This year I will not define my life by a sheet of paper that points out my short comings like a red ink stain on white capris.

I  have decided this year to celebrate me a bit more.  I’m going to live as the day takes me and try to think of what in the day I did well, and just be glad for that.
new years resolutions

My Ice Cold Heart In Review

Every where I look there is a year in review article or show.  So my own . . .

Picture 9I think I can say this has left me a little colder than before, figuratively and literally.  It’s nearly midnight here and it’s 41 degrees.  For those of you that live in far colder temperatures I apologize for my California bred whining, but my toes are like ice and at any moment I suspect they will snap off.  I’ve taken to microwaving my socks, which does at least make the microwave useful, finally.

It’s not like the entire year was a downward spiral.  I fell in love and got my heart crushed.  That on the surface seems bad, but in the end the whole experience gave almost as much as it took so not too bad.  I got 30 of my 66 seniors published last year.  I even decided to start submitting my own work to rather good results, I think.  I don’t have other writers to compare results to, but I have gotten 1 in 5 submissions accepted.  so right now I am at @20%.  I think that is good.  I’ve been writing so much.  And at first it seemed centered on the Sand Dune Guy but it has expanded to peacocks, Indian lovers, childhood, and just whatever I see.  All excessively good for me.  And there are these old dudes in an Optimist club, that actually make me smile almost every thursday.  It is an irony that I’m a member of an Optimist Club.  This seems like all heart warming moments, but there is the other side of life.

The year has been harsh.  A trip to Vegas, that could have been amazing, which I refuse to regret for all it taught me, still the harshest moment of my year are housed  in those hours.  I found comfort in the wrong places repeatedly and walked away with frostbite more than once. My mother has been diagnosed with Alzheimer.  My father, who I have not seen since I was 7, has never lived more than 10 miles away from me, my entire life.  Currently he resides in Paramount, less than 10 minutes away and he frequents the veterans hospital one block from my house.  Still, I am not necessary in his life.  The remainder of my family either fights with each other, or uses me.  They think of me as the “success” in the family because I am the only one who went to college, and when there is a need they come to me, and I won’t say no where my niece, nephews or mother are concerned, Furlough days and medical bills have put me in further debt.  To end the year, I finally decided it was time to try to let someone in again, and was kicked in throat when he explained he was married, an arranged marriage so it doesn’t count, in his words.  And this is how the I end the year, questioning why I haven’t called it quits but very pleased that the year never pushed me over the edge, even when it tried.

So goodbye 2012, may 2013 bring a de-frosting of this heart.

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