Sometimes

Morning comes in bright
jangly yellows that work their way
determindly into pockets,
throwing out dust balls
and pieces of leftover chalk
to make room for themselves,
and I yawn and stretch
and try to keep eyes closed
against the infringement
of the day,
stuffing the remains of dreams
around the cracks
to keep out the light.

But morning comes
and bare feet are cold on
drowsy floors and the kettle
takes its own sweet time
and finally finally the smell of coffee.
Sometimes its almost worth it...

When autumn spreads her legs wide,
whoring blue skies
and humping clouds into oblivion
Sometimes its almost worth it...

When razor stubble scrapes
morning cheeks
and I can keep the corks in the bottles
that hold awareness and
stop counting dead leaves
on the mandrake
long enough
to look at you.
Sometimes,
its almost
worth it.

---

Smooth Sailing

crush me
into a fine white powder
put me in the spoon
and cook me
make sure every little grain of me
boils hot
extract the essence
and suck it up
through a tiny ball of cotton
into the needle
then stuff me into your veins
along with the poppy juice
and sagging yesterdays
broken dreams
untouched destinies
we all swirl together
a mad mixture of possibilites
and posterities
that you never wanted anyway
slam us
feel the fucking rush
of our demise
and be done with it
addiction in all its forms
culminated into one brilliant flash
then gone
leaving you free to love
only the china white
that you get from the old man
down the street
he always says
"boy, dis stuff gonna kill you"
but he takes your money anyway,
shoving it deep in grimy pockets
before he hands you your gram
so crush me, cook me, slam me...
and get on down that sprial starcase
to hell....
i 'll be with you
one way or another
holding your pain
stroking it softly to keep it quiet
while it grows teeth and growls low
beneath my hand.
within you or without you
it doesnt matter
i will jourmey with you to Nod
and bring back the golden gates
that lead to heaven
then we will dance our final dance
in the cold blue light
that streams in glowing reflections
from the many eyes of morpheus.
so get on down that spiral staircase
and into eternity....
i 'll be right behind you
yeah, baby, i got your back.
No worries...just smooth sailing
into blue.

---

     Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
     I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.