tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44849963374151802462024-03-05T10:26:19.418-08:00Montana ChicMaryBugg11http://www.blogger.com/profile/10872198810218757310noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484996337415180246.post-28571746665674861502010-09-05T17:12:00.000-07:002010-09-05T17:15:05.179-07:00What the...Snow?<span style="color:#003333;">It is snowing up in Big Sky. I am sitting here pretending to be productive; Will is playing Civilization Revolution on the PlayStation3. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Tuco the wonderdog</span> is half on and half off his stack of beds near the fireplace. It's snowing outside, and it's September something.</span>MaryBugg11http://www.blogger.com/profile/10872198810218757310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484996337415180246.post-45765350639047416092010-06-30T00:02:00.000-07:002010-06-30T00:04:42.564-07:00broken branches of a family tree<span style="font-family:lucida grande;color:#330033;">I have been thinking about the word "family" quite a bit over the past few days. why is it that the outward branches on a family tree always become out-of-reach? because they have grown too far apart ... rather than support, there is a noticeable lack of connectedness... and the common ground becomes what he and she said about her and him until one grows to hate the other and the family tree becomes brittle and broken. it is sad. i am thankful for my own steady and loving branch, but i feel sorrow for those branches that look inwardly only to themselves rather than expand their understanding and recognize that they are all part of the same tree that grew from the same seed. for all families, it is worth thinking about...</span>MaryBugg11http://www.blogger.com/profile/10872198810218757310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484996337415180246.post-90364931486766792942010-06-17T15:26:00.000-07:002010-06-17T15:28:31.213-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">I need to write on here more...</span></span><br /></div>MaryBugg11http://www.blogger.com/profile/10872198810218757310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484996337415180246.post-18416950328893763072010-03-13T16:26:00.000-08:002010-03-13T16:37:04.154-08:00A Small Sampling... of My PoetryI.<br /><br />The rusted nail turned so tightly at the corners<br />that the driftwood frame moaned and cracked to brittle pieces.<br />A sepia-toned paper with water marks of unknown liquid blurring faces<br />broke free of the chipped glass pane,<br />a fragile provenance keeper,<br />and drifted to the kitchen table,<br />transfixed in a slow motion glide through a breathless operation of oxidation.<br />Thus her transformation was complete.<br /><br /> II.<br /><br />At the start of spring I open a trench in the ground,<br />The still cold earth creaking open with a moan of forgiveness,<br />For the life would start breaking through the soil in breaths.<br />I put inside the manuscripts and folios that I created and<br />Raked over with judgment throughout the bitter solitude of winter<br />And books I read and forgot once the words left my sight.<br />My fascination with meanings left me lonelier than the<br />Reality that I was deep into a dark wooded place,<br />Where I wrote for the stars and for a dead lover<br />Lost between two planes, one always with me<br />And one nestled in another hemisphere.<br /><br /><br /> From Verdejo to Ripe<br /><br />Me crumpled in a forgotten pocket<br />Who are you to sigh should my<br />Tears crack mirrors behind a suggested bottle? It<br />Tastes diverse in smoky rhythm from verdejo to ripe<br />When he used to love my feathers, now brittle<br />So aches couldn’t grow vines by dim lights.<br />Too-dry soil’s metamorphosis suffocating<br />Into something other than my skin’s knight<br />Talking constellations, you caught my gossamer dust<br />In your carpenter’s fingertips, crying “amore amore.”<br />The essence drives a kiss to sterling facade just<br />Before last call to the ladies denies<br />The “maybe just this once” of wings.<br /><br /> Enter: Me<br /><br />Baby pink v-neck molded cashmere<br />Informs each entered room, “Hello, I’m here.”<br />Seasoned scotch on the rocks, lead crystal snifters<br />Crack and echo “nice to meet you” misters.<br />We debate over bacon-wrapped water chestnuts who’s better<br />Picasso, Sargent, Matisse, van Gogh, or Whistler.<br />Apparently a vagina makes me always already post-modern;<br />Too bad they don’t know you can’t out-bullshit a bullshitter.<br />Nodding, smiling I ponder the chances of fiber<br />Hidden in flaming desserts before sipping seltzer water.<br />Fuck all anorexic post-modern bitches in their<br />Strategically placed haute couture and aviators.<br />By the ropes, I catch my breath through a nicotine inhaler,<br />Wishing to illuminate this mausoleum theater,<br />And slip way into midnight’s sirens before lovers’<br />(Past and present) specters enter.<br /><br /> Wilting to Chopin<br /><br />Jimmy Choo boots spike forgotten grapes<br />Into Chianti mulled with bloodlust for burns.<br />Where were you when the dragon pierced pride’s womb<br />And crushed Grandma’s reincarnated hands against keys<br />I knew better than chrysanthemums wilting to Chopin?<br />I should have remembered the cubic zirconium;<br />No one will buy diamonds for a cactus, milked of all dust.<br /><br /> Key<br /><br />Acoustic rivers hum<br />My empty octaves into<br />The simplest confusion<br />Your eyes shadowed my<br />Fumble not knowing<br />It’s never been locked<br />And you were never a key.<br /><br /> Solstice<br /><br />There is no interdisciplinarity between you and me;<br />An attempted escape from this landscape<br />Damp with uncertain humidity stirs limbs<br />To twine colder leaves and hushed questions,<br />Frantic for what? Truth is lying here with us<br />Deep in thickets. I know you feel nothing in the space<br />you touch; don’t fear the frostbite of mutual dismay,<br />I have already awakened my vertigo to stand still in light,<br />Away from apologies for incompatible seasons. To you<br />I will always be the fall, just pining for your powder.<br /><br /> This Old Brass Bed<br /><br />Here I lay under a wedding ring quilt<br />No-one I know made wondering<br />“how many ancestors made love<br />in this old brass bed” stripped and painted<br />ivory to match the shirt I ironed and only<br />thought of you, not steam or straightness.<br />Where are you when I lay in this bed<br />Of mountain homes and Montana pines<br />Pollinating my blood to grow a more<br />Lonely heart best broken and kept secret.<br /><br /> Promenade<br /><br />I promenade through segregated bricks<br />My too pink stones, not pine opals,<br />Companions I never asked for amid Aspens<br />Left out of mountain time zones.<br />Autumn blazes life to unknown minutes<br />Reminiscent of soil’s last breath<br />A warning away, the raven’s beaks<br />Pecking an unforgiving ground<br />Frosted, as I am, in morning.<br /> <br /> Heart Strings<br /><br />The mantle clock chimed a time<br />That never was, so how did I hear it?<br />Living in paper mache stars<br />Hanging by fishing line you touched<br />once, or was it twice, before touching<br />Peach fuzz and curls clipped away<br />From a damp neck?<br />Time alone makes me paint nothing.<br />You are my canvas and you are nothing<br />I can capture with anything but stars on strings.<br />Impossibility is my only friend when you leave<br />And I go crazy hearing silent chimes<br />Picturing you smile for your dinner,<br />Your wine, your pillow, and peace of mind.<br /><br /> Tango<br /><br />Long bottlenecks with limes and all woman hips<br />Upset the blue eyed equilibrium in the darkest corner<br />Where tongues long to tango with torsos<br />And the music man looks on green.<br />Two almost strangers stirred to move<br />By unfamiliar spirits of Havana<br />And vibrations below equators<br />Captured not even by his passion’s keys.MaryBugg11http://www.blogger.com/profile/10872198810218757310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484996337415180246.post-64633680000896658852009-12-30T14:30:00.001-08:002009-12-30T14:33:31.605-08:00Alice B. and Gertrude Stein<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeeJzyGgDZLepE2QHwBxpD3s39k8eogRnvhuYZSTf0U6LqbaTjc_eO2onYtSgyT7wfOTv9v0HN-u59jDT0HBoivaU_D7xsD07TBuWkUCdgRJGqFHVOgH5uZFPtNMVbV0jnthAjxyGUXCl/s1600-h/1230091504f.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421160417323602994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeeJzyGgDZLepE2QHwBxpD3s39k8eogRnvhuYZSTf0U6LqbaTjc_eO2onYtSgyT7wfOTv9v0HN-u59jDT0HBoivaU_D7xsD07TBuWkUCdgRJGqFHVOgH5uZFPtNMVbV0jnthAjxyGUXCl/s320/1230091504f.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Introducing Alice B. and Gertrude Stein! They have only attempted to attack (or give me a "love bite") once while I collected an egg, which definitely was a first for me.</span></div><div> </div><div>They are noisy, kind of smelly, but definitely entertaining. They are always moving, and this was the clearest photo I could get on my low-tech cell phone. </div><div> </div><div>More to come!</div>MaryBugg11http://www.blogger.com/profile/10872198810218757310noreply@blogger.com0