I. "Of Karen, the lie is true.."

Rasp At the Weed
Karen Hallenbeck-Sikorsky-George BS,RN
August 9th, 2006

Pale grey clam shell, sit upon the particles of burnished sand, distinctly
A replica of thousands before, sworn up on the shore, endless tide drifts in
Out again, the salty brine assaults my senses, there is no ideology left at
The secret shore, the discontent of generations is spattered like house paint
Upon the hot summer sidewalk of my youth, and the taste of tears upon
My tongue leaves a pearl dropped from that necklace you bought me
Thin gold chain snaps, as your fist touches my cheek, the violence of
The dawn hours before, and years after, lets me tremble, the shell
Drops from hands tired, they write words, touch
Hearts, lend warmth in some empty bed left a
Thousand times, along with broken hearts that
Bleed freely like the school girl skipping down the
Path of righteous delight, "all the way home" and
This shell is my memory of nondescript, I am "you."
I stand again, recalling days when running ten miles was a rule of thumb
Where bloodshot eyes did not betray the lack of sleep, or empty hovel left
In this core of spirituality, bereft of comfort, the rules I do not abide, nor is
Anger an outlet, today the shock of simple comfort is none, for the heat of
This August day will come, even though the dawn brought fall temperature
The dry air of West Texas swept clean the reminder, that a night alone is
God speaking of work to be done, scrub the floors-become whole
The puppy dog fumbles, grunts, and ambles along, the garden is growing
Sit, the quiet is getting louder, do not move from here
Embed your form in the silhouette of a feminine shrine
Forsaken by legs, breasts, and a cunning way of pleasure
Common to (me) not you, and the hurricane is planning
To avenge the wrong doing of sin, the incest is now
The man you cannot meet, touch, or love, not he
A single daisy stark white, with deep golden center stands to the side
"Do you pick it out" or let it grow, unaided by your death claw grasping it
As a weed to pluck it from natural existence, here on the perimeter of a
Green, kept lawn, and that "no trespassing sign" forbids your entry
Go anyhow, step barefoot feeling the lush cool enter your skin, and climb
Up both legs, equally it fills you with the days of youth; carefree ambience
Make love, satiate lust, turn under the prim white sheet sensing again you
Come to sleep, and the sticky touch of "he on your thigh" is flat, yes gone...

There a luster, glow, simple grey shell; today worthy of coming home, to
Grace the mantel, above the old brick fire place, where years of happy faces
Sat in romantic ease, a glass of wine in hand, warm skin touching, until one
By one they die off, their children speak of parents, grandparents, and the
Lost generations continue, yet I will not seek the sprite apple wood logs left
Behind in northern New Jersey, that last winter spent, a baby at my breast
Taking nourishment from a mother who loves her unconditionally, till death
"I am dying dear children" and they wave goodbye, allow me to meet the
Dark, black, fearful abyss; the battle is over and the field
Is littered by the scent of day old blood, one rotting corpse
Festers in a heated sun too cruel to hide behind a cloud
Flies buzz about entering the chest cavity exposed as if
This allowance of war is public entry, (it is not I scream)
That man is finding my shadow, no matter how far I run, the miles add up
He stands as if his pace is quicker than mine, his eyes tell of many defeats
Like dominoes they stand to topple down, deep in my heart I yearn to know
His fingers upon my cheek, a guardian that I might sleep, the hallowed halls
Grade school dreams, the sweat of a child is fragrant, beseeching me to
Stop, stand tall, not flinch if the teacher is stern, makes me stay after class
To explain that "this cannot be your work it is too perfect" and the subtle
Tears fall down (over and over again) until the well is dead dry, I die, I do, die..
The White Mountains, in July, there is loud chirping and
Birds swoop down to the cold stream, carrying away
Writhing live fish, they feast hungrily, and the bus is late
Why did I journey here alone, far from New York City
Driving endless miles (alone) suntanned, young, the
College girl is gone, immersed in Sartre, the poems of
Seferis, the Greek isles unknown, she is so bright, but has not left America
There must be a plain (beyond the desert here) where the repetition of emotive
Loss is portrayed in anger, love, lustful sin exposed, and the LOUDER it gets
The more quiet I might become, for the noise of this committee is raging now
Tornado evidence left by spewed and broken beams on that house north of here
"Leave me the fuck alone!" and this walk is shaking me like an earthquake for
Today is Wednesday, the clock strikes one, and the emptiness is filling me
Brick wall come down and crush my need, end the pain, let me have a free

Spirit, to cross this iron gate, not look back
Give up, end the madness of my insanity
To rest again, sleep wraps round me
Your hand in mine, yes, so we meet again...