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Iscah Mara: March 2010
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Monday, March 22, 2010. There it is,. The kingpin of the Easter basket. Those happy hyperbolized eyes,. The pastel suspenders and that toothy grin. It's floating in a sea of mommy-loves-me Easter grass,. Which is made of some mysterious and unnaturally green material. Once you peel that metallic pink and green wrapper. Into little strips as you delicately move around. Its fragile ears and little bunny toes. Making sure to keep it all in one piece. You sit back from your wicker treasure chest. And then, h...
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Iscah Mara: 10JUNE14.15:11
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Thursday, June 12, 2014. Billboards with photographs of people living lives that don't exist. Set in staged rooms by crews of people you never see. Are specters, ghosts. There's nothing real about them. Ive no human connection to them. And they could be dead. But theyre not living truth. Theyre not living anything real. Which mean people who covet the lives falsified on these bilboards. Would rather be dead. Which means everyones afraid of their own life. And made happy by. To justify their existence.
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Iscah Mara: July 2010
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Wednesday, July 21, 2010. It's the Birthday of Ernest Hemingway. Books by this author. Born in Oak Park, Illinois (1899). He was just 22 when he moved to Paris with his wife, Hadley, having taken a job as a foreign correspondent for the. It's also the birthday of Candace Ruth Morris. S and passion that would restore the young woman's heart bit by bit and evermore. Within its web pages, Candace created a blog of soulish beauty. Whether she is featuring her brilliant photography. The shameless confessions ...
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Iscah Mara: June 2015
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Monday, June 15, 2015. An aroma: putrid, if not earthen. Emitting bubbles and it slurps the dead. And the living between the dialogue. Listening to the metamorphosis. Noting, the alchemist observes. As the prima materia boiling. The cauldron ignites beneath. Flame: blue, the fierce of fate. With a match, I strike in part. Only exhaled, painful inhale,. A reluctant plying with consciousness. Recovered apnea breath sipping shallow. With them I die. Time of infinite pulse by the elements. Deeper we scope wh...
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Iscah Mara: September 2010
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Tuesday, September 21, 2010. When the strain of too damn much erupts. My clammy palms stretch the skin at my temples. Reeling back the piercing ache that threatens to overtake me. Can a brain swell from the stress of unfinished business? Like keeping pressure on a wound, all slippery and pulsing,. My hands constrict and push, fumbling desperately at a broken dam;. A life awash in worry, wasting away in the wonder of what should have been,. Too preoccupied to entertain the what if. Una Dia de Una Vida.
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Iscah Mara: Forget Your People
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Wednesday, September 26, 2012. All your robes are fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia;. From palaces adorned with ivory. The music of the strings makes you glad. Daughters of kings are among your honored women;. At your right hand is the royal bride in gold of Ophir. Listen, O daughter, consider and give ear:. Forget your people and your father's house. The king is enthralled by your beauty;. Honor him, for he is your lord. The Daughter of Tyre will come with a gift,. Her gown is interwoven with gold.
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Iscah Mara: July 2012
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Friday, July 20, 2012. I began in the water. The Salish Sea. The prize presented to me by my knights. The still, salty water bathed me in its cooling embrace. Baptized in the abyss of darkness, yet safe. Safe as I had not known it in so long. So long since I sat cradled in my mother's womb. So long since the black veil meant peace. I mark my time now, by her presence and her absence. Which day was this? I knew that place my face would find her neck. I knew those hands that rubbed up my back coaxing t...
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Iscah Mara: Becoming
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Friday, September 21, 2012. I finger your soul. Until you come to your self. Sex is always better with a mirror. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Una Dia de Una Vida. View my complete profile. The day I said, yes. Musings of a bright melancholic. Dancing with My Soul. The Life of Brian.
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Iscah Mara: January 2011
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Monday, January 24, 2011. Tidal ebb and flow does not obey my whims,. Not of the great seas, nor of my draining womb. Pangs of suffering do not ease at my song,. Not of the inumerable oppressed, nor of my straining flesh. Peaceful surrender does not fall as I whisper,. Not upon the brutality of man, nor upon my fretting heart. Time's presence and passage does not keep pace with my desire,. Not for the earth's rotation, nor for my yearning impatience. I cannot summon the moon;. I cannot heal the poor;.
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Iscah Mara: Depression Soup
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Saturday, September 22, 2012. Start with a pot that has a hole in the bottom. Throw it on an erratic flame. Controlled by the fickle fates. Build your base with ample tears. Add salt to taste. If you spill the salt,. Better to rub it into your wounds. Than to throw it over your shoulder;. Luck is no lady tonight. Chop up your hopes and dreams. Toss them in the air and pray. They find their way. Open the door to your heart. And take a long, cruel stare at what remains:. The selfish savor of old pain,.