Spontaneous Generation

July 11

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth.   I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat.  The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease.  Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin.  Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings.  I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles.  Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm.  Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.

Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.

*

A Year for Me

The world is my mollusk

and I am its pennyweight paragon,

witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time

surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,

all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.

I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink

and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant

I feel strong enough to stand my ground.

Time has come for life, open and raw,

but I shall leave the clams to the casino.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Exercising Futility

July 1

Exercising Futility

Asking the confused for explanation is like asking a blind man the color of the sea.  It isn’t that he couldn’t tell you, but how could you be sure?  To exercise futility is more than just a game or the words to a song your mother sings when lost or far away.  To take the fish out of water and train it on a bike is meaner than I need to be, but isn’t it my right?  Just to do things because they can be done or try them because they can’t is more the worse for everyday a tragedy in pants.  Puzzle out the little things and practice when you can, for putting on the frazzled mind is cruel to the poor sweet-hearted sot.

Don’t get hooked by excuses

*

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs

My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth.

I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat.

The longer I stay sober,

The more real is the insidious nature of my disease

Mental clutter does breed all manner of

Squirming and chattering vermin.

Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned

Is a brooding box of contempt,

False pride and bloated ego.

The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges

Fairytale thinking and firebrand action

Mimic grandpa’s bedbug rantings.

I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy

Or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles.

Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me

From the transmigration of blood sucking life draining phantasm.

Supernatural transformations needn’t plague me if I take right action

The difference between blessings and curses

Is the direction in which you are going.

Spontaneous Generation

July 11

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth.   I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat.  The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease.  Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin.  Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings.  I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles.  Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm.  Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.

Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.

*

A Year for Me

The world is my mollusk

and I am its pennyweight paragon,

witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time

surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,

all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.

I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink

and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant

I feel strong enough to stand my ground.

Time has come for life, open and raw,

but I shall leave the clams to the casino.

Spontaneous Generation

July 11

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth. I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat. The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease. Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin. Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings. I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles. Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm. Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.


Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.