Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “August, 2013”

Black Out Confessions

Today I received a letter, from someone who I am sure loves me, but just can’t say it, at least not sober.  And unfortunately this letter was written sober, I know because he signed it “sincerely,” the same way one signs a complaint letter to an airline for losing his luggage.

Sober he can say many things like, “You know how I feel about you”, “You mean the world to me”, “I don’t have to say it”, “I appreciate you so much”, and blah blah blah as if he is the only orator of these words.  As if he were the only King of love brand-name  knock-offs.  As if he is the only one to mask his heart with a thesaurus of phrases that can never be used against him in a court of law.

I am not the type of person that needs to be told she is loved.  I have grown accustom to those words coming along with other lies, like “I didn’t mean it”, “It’s not the same”, “It was a mistake” and “Just kidding”.  However  it is more insult than endearment when hearing it through a wall of empty beer glasses.

a night to forget

Drunk his words are meant to haunt and keep me from sleep.  When he is drunk he calls me a trickster, the girl that makes him fall in love, makes him forget that she can never have children.  Worse yet makes him forget the love, must be planned like careers, taxes, and time shares.  Drunk his hand finds mine, and there is always the moment when he swears that he means each word, and I only need to check his blood shot eyes to read the real map to his heart.  It is lined with apologies for never being the man he should be for me, and promises that the next time when  he says he loves me, it will be sober.  It is this “I love you” That matters.  The words that come before he has to explain it was only the black out talking.  Before he must explain that love comes in many forms, and his lips were confused about which form they were trying to create.

There’s always the argument that what was said drunk was not meant.  The alcohol was possessing its intakers tongue like the holy spirit.  A religious experience ending in a morning of sweat and chills that shift him back into sobriety.  Anything said was a black out confession, it had to be.    He has already promised love to someone else, sober.  She deserved it.  Marked his sincerity by the curvature of her child-bearing hips.  He can’t take back the love he garnered for her in sobriety and hand it over to some whore that only deserves intoxicated words of love that stumble into walls and trip over cracks in the sidewalks at 1:28am.

But keeps his whore near to remind him that medical studies show  alcohol is the only truth serum he will ever know.  Keep her near so his conscience can never rest.  Keep her near so she can never be free to hear the words he says from a sober man.

Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets

I should have posted this a couple of weeks ago, but summer lazy won out.
This is a collection of Long Beach, California poets, poems, and events.
With more to come in the future.
I’m proud to say I have been included.
Check it out here

Cadence Collective

Tuesdays Say Goodbye Sometimes.

John F. Buckley where are you when you are needed?  That’s right, I forgot,  getting an MFA in the middle of Michigan.  Awing a whole other state with your talent.  Chronolizing (like that word?) open mics and features as they now appear in your life.

But here in Long Beach, sadness has reigned over the poetry scene, as the Second Tuesday Poetry Readings came to a resounding close on the 13th, of this August.

I am no historian so I can do very little to assist in making this poetry reading seem amazing or as important as it was.  The best I have is to tell you that for the past year and a half I loved the occasions that I got to attend, and even the ones that I got to read my poetry.  Thanks to this reading I made friends in the poetry world that I would hate to lose, while having pieces of work picked up for publication.  It was also the place I would take my students for their first poetry readings.  And where several of them read for the very first time.  I have no idea where I will take this year’s batch of writers . . . .

Mostly I got to call G. Murray Thomas a friend.  He is like a warm smile that makes you forget the worse day and look forward to the next day.  He welcomed everyone to his reading: novice, or veteran, it did not matter to him you were already his friend.  It is often his love for the people as much as the craft that shined through.

Open mics are hard for me.  I’m not good with crowds, I’m in automatic critique mode at all times (I blame the creative writing teacher in me), and I still shake something awful when reading.  It’s weird.  I have been giving hints on how to combat that, but to no avail.

But at This reading, hosted by G. Murray, I always felt safe.  I don’t know if that has to do with the setting, the podium to hide behind, or the eyes of Parker, Fitzgerald, Tagore, and Neruda gazing from behind.  That’s some pretty hefty backing.

At any rate here are a few of the people that read and celebrated the 2nd Tuesday’s run.

Top Row:  Nancy, Ricki, Murray, Ben Bottom Row: Robbi, Mitch, Richard, Sarah

Top Row: Nancy, Ricki, Murray, Ben
Bottom Row: Robbi, Mitch, Richard, Sarah

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