Voices on the Wind Voices on Relaxation
Happiness and Pain Grow Together like Weeds by Mark Vogel A letter’s stained white lies digested on the desk— a mere snippet freezing an alien’s hurt, a slice of abstract literature from a disappearing past, from a character cut from context, unaware passionate smoky memory has been shelved— once she giggled flipping her hair as enticement, shedding clothes, revealing a hidden birthmark, standing naked and proud believing a storied love. But a continent lies between us, and her crafted paper-thin puzzle pieces struggle to be lost, and her long distance diatribe has been muted, though it has vainly tried to gouge, to bring back wounding habits. For a moment with a comical hint of danger her West Coast anger fueled dry winds and made fresh helping family thugs walking moldy historic trails I was supposed to remember. Again the tiresome attempts to drag her prey into a dank cave and wrap me in sticky threads, though without legal status her insistent threats no longer can subtly probe a decade’s vulnerable skin, tracing scars, seeking weakness—trying to flame her own fever. From my distance, given the gift of perspective, who wants to be smug washed in cool, observing through a telescope pathetic self-destruction? Amazing when an ancient calm persists, even as outside bleak rain tries to be all. When a breathing house with sleeping animals remains glued for the long term, loving restraint lives whole, and gentle lamp light feeds a tentative smile sure she can’t break these walls.