Ambassador Larue reporting for Duty: September 2008

Saturday, September 27, 2008

blues for sister someone

Her eyes are bloodshot marbles streaming tears of twenty, hard years, worn deep into the crevices of her face, a violation of a protective order and a possible stint in Framingham with the"dykes". whirring around her head like a cyclone. I remember a similar face, staring at me, shiny and red, like the knife he pulled out of his pocket and a police officer who mocked it, or the smell of her expensive perfume when she ran at me, like a fireball from hell, the Fraud behind her, now awaiting extradition in county jail. I suppose I should sigh a breath of relief and I do, but it's from the chest, wondering if yet another war has been won from fighting, if to defend is to be attacked, but to do nothing is to die a slow death, and so it goes, that i will wander until wherever becomes my meantime, or until some impending threat disguised as the universe redirects me.. to where i'm really supposed to be which is not just someone's sister or someone's daughter or someone's lover, banging at the walls of my own infinite potentiality, sitting in the same coffee shop, wondering where all the years went and why I sold myself down the river because I was too afraid to be my own person.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

"Ooh Girl!" - An Honest R&B Song

]hahaha..thanks Alex.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Where Everything Is Music

Don't worry about saving these songs! And if one of our instruments breaks, it doesn't matter. We have fallen into the place where everything is music. The strumming and the flute notes rise into the atmosphere, and even if the whole world's harp should burn up, there will still be hidden instruments playing. So the candle flickers and goes out. We have a piece of flint, and a spark. This singing art is sea foam. The graceful movements come from a pearl somewhere on the ocean floor. Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge of driftwood along the beach, wanting! They derive from a slow and powerful root that we can't see. Stop the words now. Open the window in the center of your chest, and let the spirits fly in and out. -- Jalaluddin Rumi