My dove, my beautiful one,
The night-dew lies
Upon my lips and eyes.
The odorous winds are weaving
A music of sighs:
My dove, my beautiful one!
I wait by the cedar tree,
My sister, my love,
White breast of the dove,
My breast shall be your bed.
The pale dew lies
Like a veil on my head.
My fair one, my fair dove,
—James Joyce (1882-1941)
The cup of grief contains such a bitter drink to consume
Burning as it moves through every part of an empty body
No longer is there any energy to even muster up a care
Surrounds and yet screams to the deserted soul
Its deafening roar an ever present reminder of what was lost
A broken heart is confusion.
You want Time to either fast-forward or rewind—anything but crawl at this excruciating pace.
You wanted something and you lost it. That job, that person, that hope for a better life. What is your life worth without it?
A broken heart is impatience.
You beat and shake the gates of Time, desperate to flee the Present for the solace of the Past or Future. The hours grind on bit by bit. You want Time to either fast-forward or rewind—anything but crawl at this excruciating pace.
You cannot function without a whole heart and you crave for it to be fixed, now. “Make it stop,” you plead. “I will cut my heart out if I have to.” And some people do. History finds them instigating lynch mobs and manning the gas chambers at Auschwitz. Continue reading
Well, well, well, I-635. It has been awhile. I haven’t traveled westward in many moons, but on this day I must.
Do you know that feeling, I-635, that feeling of freedom as you careen onto the highway, young and carefree, only to slam on the brakes at a wall of stopped cars? That’s the feeling you make me feel, time and time again.
I should know better. But like a bad boyfriend, you entice me time after time. I have a blank space, I-635, and I wrote your name in it. You are the Justin Bieber to my Selena Gomez. The Chad Kroeger to my tube-topped shot girl.
I see that you recently bribed Google Maps. (“Everyone has a price,” I imagine you said to it, openly caricaturing 1920s East Coast Italian-Americans.) When I approach you, that titillating green traffic line will draw me onto the entrance ramp, only to suddenly bleed red when I have passed the point of no return. Everyone’s on your payroll, I-635. Everyone but me.
I guess part of me thought we could be friends for awhile. “Maybe just a quick trip,” I would say to myself. But there is no mercy on your three lanes of hell, narrowed down to one lane of superhell.
But today. Today will be different.