The Fall

I am finally here. The fall has been breathtaking. I could offer up a multitude of emotions to describe it, but the best is to say that it came like a long storm with fears, imprisonment and loss. Like storms, the fall cannot be stop or halted. I could have went willingly, I suppose, rather than kicking and screaming, but either way, all was as it should have been and the finale is spectacular, in the sense of recognitions emerging and clarities after the clouds dissipate and the mist parts. One might think that arriving at an Avalon is the end. It is only the beginning. School starts now, just like a small child, and as they learn through the senses, so am I.

I can feel things as if an increased awareness has peeked through. I don't know where it comes from excepting that traveling on the spiral is a good metaphor. It is not enlightenment, nor the void. One might be able to call it the Land of Nothingness, but it is more so, the Nether, a place of hollowness that suddenly gets filled with one's shadow, embracing it like a reunion with an old friend. I am here with a Nether me.

The Way She’d Go

I thought she was heading East,
last I checked to see which way she was going. Little did I know that there would be a labyrinthine journey she would expect me to keep pace with. Well, ‘expect’ it is not the right word to describe how she banished me into the depths of myself (lol). Facing East was so much easier. There was always a solid foundation, memories, and of course the support of subconscious indoctrinations. It doesn’t matter now whether it was a tight rope walk or a tight rope. Going nowhere to get to there desired to be an accomplishment. All that was, still is, when looking at it from the point of view as stored in the files of the minds of world wide thought systems. But is it ‘still there’ in the catacombs of my being after ‘perspective shifting’ and ‘annihilation of the false assumptions,’ in favor of ‘do you really know,’ which equated a different type of technique for the wiping off of the white wash of life for the oil base masterpieces. The wheel turns and the brush slowly wipes away dust as if an archeological dig for my own bones. It is the upside down of the right side up that showed up in the middle of a tumble sault through a cerebral mid-western twister. So it was: the western weather, the southwestern fire, the northern low lights that crafted an eastern exile.

Vashti
Art and Prose Copywritten 3/2008 by Vashti

can you

can you go into where the truth tells lies
where the word places fiction in the mouth
of tellers of the future, calling prophets
who write scripts for unconscious minds.

can you go into where the truth tells lies
where the shatterings press
reality against its own skin
where edges are razor sharp
a steel place where only will survives.

can you go into where the truth tells lies
where raw firmament shakes you brutally
the wetness of the wanderer, a subtle storm
keys in the core of ice glaring in a doorless dimension
of fabricated fictions telling lives what to be.

Copyright 3/2008 by Vashti

Not a Bete Noire

While coruscating melodies
play in flickers of shade,
a fingertip reaches
in cautious curiosity,
engaging in touch talk
of royal luminosities
in shadow courts.
Her frail benevolence
cradles distant corners --
an embrace
of surrealistic rhythms.
Albeit, a stretch
to hail it a bete noire,
better a copulative affair
with black roses.

Unshorn of thorns and threats,
her love embraced indigo soils.
Not a fragile heart,
she absorbed,
irrespective of an empathic overload
or woolgathering sing song
looming to play fear games --
tales of crypts and cryptics
behind ‘Take 22”.
Her virtual song
wrote its notes, nonetheless,
of the happiness she possessed
found in the spectrum’s spectacle
of light works.

Art and Poetry
Vashti (c) November 2007

Looking for Voice

white noise, and liquid lavender light
slates of ice slipping, for the love of travel
seeking that which comes in sleep
fragments of lessor years beseeching
tandem tell-tale memories
phases of phantasmagoria hurling
SOS signals of unreal warnings
dimming radar spectrograms
while only partial sleep comes
for the listener who sits
and quietly dances to the unheard notes
in time’s regions
random cards are drawn from the
deck of the sea flights,
bounties acquired in fantasy
tokens of disregard and brightenings
on a pathless pavement of forgetting
joined to neither indigo or pale
the center invisible to sight
unseeded seeds waited patiently
the Astrologer notes the good time
to look at reasons and rhythmic beats
experiences, products, artifacts, words,
feelings, and impressions regularly spawned
speak you's inclinations
the darkness and dawns,
of Inanna and sisters of the moon
the speak of throat chakras hailing
and other centers aloof
mercurial legends and hermaphrodite longings
linger in-between letters
yang rising, sometimes,
and occasional yawnings
a prank here and a
serious note floating in mid-air,
memories surfacing and
emotions wearing thin,
delight does a belly dance
while parrot sermons stop scribing
child-like allusions craft pottery
beyond the eddy of recognitions
where a walking wall brings hands
for transfiguratives.

Vashti (c) 2007

Midnight Blueprints

She used to study interior design.
Colors and textures, emerged,
meandered and motivated her eye.

Polished marble fireplaces
calculated wall spaces, angled
to seat those needing relief
from the chills of life.

Ebony bath styles, trimmed
in gold, invited aquatic delight,
their shine attracting without
mosaic imagery slaughtering
imaginable possibilities.

Lines, contours and gradations
were the creative source.
Points of departure and arrivals,
followed with intent to capture,
color, calm and delight dwellers
and visitors, human psyche’s
and emotional tides.

Inanimate they think,
yet move they did into internal
environmental halls, performing
their scenes with color schemes.
What red said and crimson mentioned
made orange reach for dimensional
recoveries, while olive discovered
relational patterns and indigo
shadowed matter.

The mind was couched and floored,
awed and absorbed in crafted metaphors.



Vashti (c) 2007

The Hang-Over

She sipped of the elixir,
a holy combination of
a one spirit.

A dizziness poured into her blood.
Her soul was giddy with
the unexplainable.

Her beloved charmed her
with intoxicating elements.

Boundaries disappeared
as boldness was born.

All storybooks and fairytales
dispersed into a wordless place.

She had trouble selecting
voices that would make this
love known.

The outer world faded behind
the screen of her lover.

This androgynous and sexless place
enticing with an odd
array of copulations.

She rose higher and higher,
spinning in the circumference
of the hub holder.

She danced with the indescribable.
She caressed the untouchable.
She drank of the Innkeeper’s tonic.

Higher and higher she rose.
The knowings took her away.

Suddenly, her drunken passions ceased.
A gyrational spin began.
She was not in control of these matters.


Her lighted body became heavy with descent.
What had gone up must come down,
Gravity told her.

An elusive darkness dawned,
and bravery eclipsed into
the unreachable whirlwind.

Doubt and despair clamored
with images of otherworlds.

Mine’s menagerie released
strokes of misanthropic
juxtapose.

The whirlwind shattered
equanimity’s content, with a
labyrinth of confusion.

Pain pounded,
heartache haunted,
memories miscalculated,
and logic languished.

Only a lover’s thread
kept her bed warm with
enticements of returning.

She waited in the weights.