The Exhibitionist

walking around
between leaps and bounds
shimmering unheard
I want to twirl
with locks of hair
the extensions of cells
collected and gathered
by five fingers
of an extraordinary existence

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 12/27/2010 3:14 pm

Swimming

swimming in beautiful hues
silently
not quite the same
but close enough
to comprehend impalements
of oppressed hearts
both awake and asleep

chiming the clocks of ourselves
dreaming of bare feet
scampering across the nakedness
of nature floored
and stored
in a stack of minded union
adorned in gold and rose

I wait to be reborn
held by the color of you
wrapped in grays and blues
placed down on feet again
where souls can meet
and swim
for the very first time

unchained and unhindered
from the tides of mankind
we will dive together
eternally bound
by the joy of love and laughter
both heard
and spoken out loud

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 10/26/2010 somewhere in the 2:00 am hour

Reality

I'm awake. ↑
under the illusion
that I'm awake
really asleep
blessedly
with the exception
(deleted interjection)
of an earache
and heartache
dissected and unsewn

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 10/23/2010 at 4:51 am est

Identity

in five minutes
of one moment
I recognized strength
and frailty of myself
scented as a rose
not a monstrosity
but a man

written 10/16/2010

Isolation

shivering and warm
I have opened
naked from the inside
dormant for years
and I am real
pasted across pages
of isolation and longing
with an inability
to grasp the music I feel
and I can't hear
the chord of my chaos

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 10/10/2010 at 1:09 pm est

A Lily for Idaho

His name was Mike but we called him Idaho Joe. He must have been approaching his fortieth year. He must also be dead now, for this was 20 years ago - he was overweight and disabled, mentally, severely. Far beyond the line. Crossed from day one, the very day he arrived. His mother owned a small house in the same community where our cabin sat on the Rappahannock river.

Idaho Joe, 20 years later, 20 years before. I was 14 and Idaho was there and stayed until the day the cabin was sold. An overweight man with a big smile occasionally showing his teeth. He walked the community dirt roads weaving in and throughout the cottages. He wore the same long pants and light jacket all year round carrying a plastic soda bottle full of water. The big one, the two liter bottle. It was an eight mile trek from the cabin community to the closest town. Some days we would see Idaho walking back and forth from the river to town. I never understood how he continued to stay overweight with that much walking. His mother must have fed him well - stuffed him fat in the mornings and the evenings.

You never saw his mother, she hid in her cottage ashamed of her very own production. Idaho not only walked. He talked. He thought my brother was a girl and he used to come a knocking on the screened porch door. He would ask for my brother - was Shelley around? We would sit on the front lawn next to the sea wall and Idaho would say, "why 'ure as purrty as a nurse, 'ure as purrty as a psychiatrist." Because nurses and psychiatrists were all Idaho knew or understood. They were kind to him, they represented his ideal woman.

Once a girlfriend and I were quite cruel. The jelly fish were thick, Idaho decided to jump off the end of the pier into the water. And in our bikinis we laughed and waved, "come on over Idaho." And he walked through the water, through the jelly fish from the end of the pier to the seawall - at least several hundred feet or more. Behind that grin and behind those glittering Idaho eyes, he felt no pain. He smiled the whole way, not feeling one sting, still wearing the same clothing, still carrying the same 2 liter plastic bottle filled with water. Hair parted to one side. Determined he walked through on to his destination of two giggling girls.

Another time, my uncle and his friends built a bonfire and my uncle would sit and strum the guitar while they all got wasted. My uncle decided to offer liquor to Idaho and he took it. He took it hard and drank through the night. After a few hours, his grin and glittering eyes turned into pure cynicism and he turned away and let out a horrifying howl, several times. Bellowing out into the open night sky, under the stars, beside the bonfire, on the beach, next to the river. My uncle said, "well, I'll never do that again."

A third time on my way home from making out with my boyfriend and playing a long round of trivial pursuit, I walked home in the dark. And ahead of me in the distance I saw a black figure sauntering along. I knew the figure well and as we walked past each other, Idaho scared the shit out of me. But once past, I was OK. For I realized he was just heading home back to his mama to be stuffed again by her dinner of all dinners. There was nothing to fear.

My father told me, "Idaho Joe was so cruelly named by a friend of my brother, after he had seen an Indiana Jones movie. Idaho Joe was the most honest, open person I had ever met. Because of his condition he had nothing to hide nor regret. He was not what can sometimes be wrong about the human race; he revealed what was wrong with the rest of us. Sometimes I think of him grinning that mindless grin and I smile for quite a while."

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written at some point this summer

Vocalization

so close
my cells are screaming
to taste
the personification
of humanity
laid out on an Indian
tapestry

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 10/07/2010 at 2:00 am

Disposition

once again
I am ten going on ten
drawing hearts with my pen
taking walks hand and hand
with sensation and situation
I can and can't comprehend

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 10/6/20101 12:45 am est

Twitter: Close Encounters of the Right Kind

I'm excited about Twitter because I have a lot of random bits of nothing to say, poetry to share and words to not spell correctly. And I get a chance to see a lot of people out there all accumulating into one grand ever-scrolling event.

I got on Twitter last week with one intention - to spread the word on a new writing group falling into my favorite realm, under CreativeCommons Licensing. My initial experience was very surreal. No, I take that back, not my initial experience, but an experience shortly after. It happened during the middle of the night while my brain was stuck in that zone where sleep ceases to exist.

In my half awake, half asleep, one-eyed open popeye face, I jumped on twitter and all of a sudden I was driving! If you know me, you would understand just how difficult driving is for me and in fact - I don't drive at all. There were tweets and strange square faces coming at me from all directions in vast amounts of energy. With as sensitive as I am to energy itself - my body felt invaded while getting into the middle of this super highway; passing posts and faces, grabbing one idea to the next, weaving in and out through all this traffic - my brain exploded! Zoom! During the next few sessions of psychotic twitting episodes, I found myself thinking, "Jesus, duck, cover, move, speed up, slow the fuck down!"

I have since somewhat recovered over the initial shock of twitter energy. I'm approaching it a little calmer now. I'm only allowing myself to tweet a few blocks at a time per day since it is like speed for my brain and personality. And I thought Facebook was addictive; fortunately, I think I have alienated many of my actual face to face FB real friends, perhaps the erotica posts were a bad idea.

Twitter is a whole new kingdom of it's own and there upon the golden scrolls... I realized just how important Twitter is in bringing together diverse groups of people to save the world from the madness of the monsters that reside among us.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 10/4/2010 at 7:27 pm est

The Absolutes

A record, a friend once said had been played so much that it had worn thinly down. When he said this I imagined the record itself thinly worn down. A delicacy found in a worn down record played over and over in his younger years. Stimulating his developing mind. Just as I have read books that I can't even remember reading nor the details but somehow the pages have been torn and paled yellow from being handled and moved time and time again.

My uncle George, a delicacy himself, was always determined to find the most obscure abandoned houses. And with crowbar in hand, we would get into them and explore their mysteries. I remember one two story with an old dresser turned over. It wasn't the safest idea. Exploring unknown territories where you feel eerie and fascinated. The creaks in the wooden planks beneath your feet, the hanging pieces of wood with cracks that let light through along with stairwells. My father or an uncle would always lead the way making sure the structure was stable enough for us to enter or climb. There would be scraps of newspaper torn and yellowed or books mixed in with dirt on the floors. My uncle George had the eyes of a hawk and if there was some antique or piece of crap, rest assured, he would find it.

Not only would the crap be found - it would be neatly tucked away by George's hands and taken back to the cabin (a family vacation enigma in itself) as an additional unnecessary knick knack added to an already overwhelming collection. Along with his consistent nailing of nails for him to hang his hat or jacket on. After George's death, there must have been hundreds of rusted nails pulled from the knotty pine walls during my parent's renovation period. George was the true Buddha master. Without any knowledge or spiritual enlightenment - he simply was a Baltimorian reincarnation of an Italian Irish Buddha. How this happened is beyond me. But he would give his time and his patience and his smile unconditionally. George would always arrive on a late Friday night. Most of the family was already asleep either on two bunk beds or sprawled out on mattresses scattered along the floors. Like floating soft white boats underneath the cool breeze of ceiling fans. He would come in quietly at two am and turn on the lights and say in his mega phone mouth way, "Alright, wake the fuck up everybody!" And we woke up and the cabin stirred and the kitchen was declared open.

My uncle Allen, who looked like Buddha with his big gut and shirtless torso called George "Chef Boy R Dee," because along with George, came thawed out pizza dough balls, fresh Italian cheese and yellow cans of tomato sauce. And pizza would be made. You would think the man would pass out in exhaustion after working a ten hour factory shift and driving the three hour trip down route 301 in the middle of the night.

But as I age, I am discovering more and more about the absolutes. The absolute possibility of what humans are truly capable of. If we just listen close enough we can hear such - even in the most unimaginable ways.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 09/26/2010 12:55 am est

Ideas

not much has changed

information is indexed

ideas tossed the same

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 09/23/2010 at 1:29 pm est

Gesture in Three Parts

part one arrived on an island
part two presented in white
part three surrounds me
singing gentle gestures
barely heard beneath
symphonies of conformity

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

At what point did we let such monstrosities as cheese food take over our daily lives?

I'm awake with the window open behind me. It's cool out and the traffic is starting to get louder as the morning bustle hits the streets. I feel energy in the air. It is officially that time of year where mornings are crisp and they remind me of high-school days spent in Virginia suburbs. It is about this time of day where I would get up, high school started early. Too early. I would never get enough sleep. Soon the time will change or we will change time, or adjust something we call time. It will roll back and for a short period, a few days were spent waiting for the bus to arrive just before sunrise.

My father always said, "A Sunrise is a sunset and in between is all we get." Some might call that beautiful as they imagine what a wonderful concept; a blessing, the gift of a day. But my father says, "no, it means we get nothing." What does this mean that we get nothing? It means we get nothing, for a sunrise is a sunset - all the same. There is nothing in between, the earth simply rotates around the sun. There is only motion, perpetual motion of this earth rotating around the sun. I call this beautiful. This motion.

I also call a sunrise and a sunset - magic time. Magic time - something my parents always celebrated and still do to this day. Over the miraculous moment where the sun rises and lowers itself upon the horizon. Reminding me of the insignificance of my tiny self standing in awe at the colors reflected before me in the sky.

Only magic time wasn't so magical on the school bus and the sun would quickly rise as we all removed sleep from our eyes. And in our hormone energized embodiment we would have to deal with the day ahead. Always challenging. Especially for a girl, like me, who felt isolated even then. I think such feelings are common among all humans. My isolation is no different than that of another. Still challenging. I'm still waking up with fear sitting on one shoulder and bliss on the other. And in the moment of waking; I wish I wasn't so emotionally sensitive. But if I wasn't I would be mowing myself into little pieces. Mowing and mowing mindlessly. In thick humidity as a dead programmed soul. But is that soul so dead? Or just easily adaptable to a society already set in motion. And to help alleviate his own isolation, he can mow and manicure his grass and chat with Joe right next door. They share the same indoctrinated smiles and mow complacently side by side.

Sitting on that school bus, I was raised under the same indoctrination, only a few generations later. Fed on instant gratification and unmentionables like flattened pieces of fruit a foot length long rolled up in neat colors. No different than the mower raised on preserved cans of salty soup and sqaure pieces of cheese food singly wrapped in pieces of plastic. Cheese food. What is cheese food? I thought cheese was cheese. Churned and curdled and aged into beautiful wheels with red wax covers. At what point did cheese become cheese food? Personally and sadly I don't know the answer. Was it the industrial revolution? At what point did we let such monstrosities as cheese food take over our daily lives? And who sells us these foods? Cigarette industries disguised under other unmentionable names? Only to be re-packaged and re-sold to another unmentionable. Again, I don't know. The depths and private crevices of such selling and re-selling is foreign to me. And I sadly question, why is it so foreign?

My saving grace pre-high school, my appreciation of cheese as cheese began on a mountain top. When my grandma would cut large slices of sharp cheddar and serve them on round pieces of unmentionable crackers. For it is impossible to keep out all unmentionables in a society owned by other unmentionables. But it is possible to gain a sincere appreciation of cheese on a mountain top over looking a view of tall pines and redwoods.

The very same redwoods cut and dragged up the hillside by my grandparents - true pioneers still existing to this day. When my son wants dominoes, the very next day my son will receive dominoes cut out with love and patience from a wood saw by the hand of his great grandpa. And he won't receive 24 neatly packaged dominoes, he will receive 100 dominoes in an old box kept around just for such purposes. My grandpa also cut larger pieces of redwood and milled his own lumber to build a redwood house on a mountain top, where I developed love for a large slice of sharp cheddar.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
Written 09/15/2010

Unrestraint

words flew out of hands
without being bound
to release pain inflicted
upon sensitivity akin

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 08/09/2010 9:41 pm est,
revised 09/11/2010 at 9:49 pm est

Proclamation

I always say I will work on writing words well received where realities merge revealing the sincerest beauty of worlds within.

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 09/05/2010 at 10:58 est

Encipher

fish still twist
and turn
a corkscrew encoded
inside DNA
as we return
briefly home
memories stored
silently inside cells

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 08/29/2010 at 11:14 pm est

Under Stars

inside mind
awake without alarm
one knows the other
they don't battle
they bathe

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 07/24/2010 3:25 am est
revised 08/22/2010 9:51 pm est

A Song

there are crickets
singing a sweet august song
before quieting upon
the rise of the morning sun

mixing in with humming
squeals of an empty stomach
and a child's heavy breath
adds the final touch

faintly in the background
there is another
she sings along awakening
the rise of the morning sun

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 08/16/2010 at 5:38 am est, edited 6:04 am est

Scintillate II

silk stockings
climb my thighs
peeled by hands
resting in mind

all in all
what do I truly know?
nothing but a lightness
crying in the snow

and in impulsiveness
sugared with stupidity
powdered with anger
I arise soaked

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 08/05/2010

Late "Summer" Evening
(from The Seasons)

Cage's piano dances
with innate brilliance
playing with the stillness
and rustling in between

as full green moves gently
with gold amongst the trees

his smile and mannerisms
bring joy and strangeness
he is sound embedded in body
he is body embedded in sound

and protection remains affixed
under preservation of his hands

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 08/08/2010 9:52 pm est

Insanity

the quarantine of one
makes room for another
as we crowd amongst each other
beside oppressed souls and revolutions
sitting and staring without much movement
chewing on the insanity of our own consumption

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 8/6/2010 11:21 pm est

Full Phase of the Moon

two lay together
watching above
on a roof top

I was there
I look there still

where without intent
enjoy chaos and contentment
tingled in movement and mind

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 08/04/2010 during the afternoon and into the evening

A Beginning

blueish gray cumulus gather
black trees with tint of green
standing still against the sky
like two dimensional oil painted figures

grass still wet with collected tears
from the hunter's dried eyes

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 07/17/2010 9:54 am est

Gutes Land

despite oppression
the seed of humanity
is compacted in all
hidden under compression

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 07/02/2010 10:33 am est

Devotion

awoke
with death compressed
against my chest

not my own death
but over the gloom
of my universe

death sits for me
grimacing on a fence
and I will stare it down

through fear
through tears
I will stare it down

until the day I rest
securely held upright
by the hands of life and laughter

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 07/01/2010 11:54 am est

Little Warrior

fighting frights
in fetal position
by the side of
an unknown flame
on sacred nights
in solitude
and security

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 6/28/2010 4:40 pm est

Full Bloom

walking in full bloom
through sprinklers
stumbled over stones
bit my own lip
enhanced by a skip
pushed by sweet shadow
kissed by glistening dust
felt unfathomable rhythms

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 06/23/2010 at 4:42 pm est

The Mechanism of Life

each night
I wake up
every morning
transcending far
by a magnetic bond
not watching death
watching life
adjoining desperately
it simply is the same

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written the day of 06/21/2010

Summer

walked in humidity
fogged with camera lens
took pictures in isolation
drank in honeysuckle
drenched with saliva
danced in puddles
soaking in a dream
left over from an
afternoon celebration
of the summer solstice

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 06/16/2010 at 8:00 pm est

Elliptical Paths

I am
simply emotion
orbiting around
a mind with sound
in similar circulatory motion
a mind orbits around
my emotion

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell
written 6/15/2010 at 9:49 am est

Mud Pies In Pirouette

defaced the school bus stop
egging aluminum sided trailers
stole earrings from fancy shops
toilet papered park entrances

nurtured pet rats in pig tales
smiling mischievously
gently gnawed on toenails
all the while eating mud pies

naked and foraging forests
twirling a pink tutu in pirouette
pretending to be a princess
imprisoned still in a tall tower

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 6/11/2010 at 12:29 pm est

Fields of Death

on a patio
fields of life
swim with pleasure
yet death hoovers

mosquitoes are zapped
by a cowboy hat
smiling and killing
with electrical currents

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 06/05/2010 at 10:45 est

Broken

I scream
for the obtainable
that cannot
be reached

that sits
just beyond
gentle fingers
that tap
gentle dualities

I lay
half asleep

~ Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 6/5/2010 1:38 am est

Unknown Cells

projections are reflections
off surfaces of glass
clear and concise
from the first day
of entering
into non-existence

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 6/2/2010 6:33 pm est

Untitled II

there is a knot
that cannot
be undone
most days
it is tied in
a beautiful bow
ever-binding

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 4/26/2010 2:57 am est

Stratum

carry me quietly
moving onward
one step to the next
making seasons bearable
in discontent
I stay afloat
in a white painted boat
where sunsets forever set
and moons always rise
between crisp sheets
translucent and layering
soul upon soul

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Forgotten Worlds

have to think on this
write it out on paperbacks
read time and time again
crackling, sizzling inside
pages of my mind
and measurements
written on pages of past
posted on pages of present
and unwritten words
briefly mingling in a future
of half forgotten worlds

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 4/24/2010 at 3:38 pm est

Two Consecutive Nights

out of the hairs of Dali
aunts march over skin
bleeding tears

out of the seas of Whistler
waves wash over skin
kissing tears

the lights are dimmed

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written outside the morning of 5/23/2010

Translucent

arms reach forward into
pools of crystallized clarity
calming kills chaos
caught in endearing embrace
of situation and sensation
of saturation and silence
colliding again in clouds

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written on the afternoon of 05/20/2010

Consistent

in winding woods
sprinkled by a fairy tale
dampened with desire
petals yearn and breathe
off tree bark conceiving
and receiving consistently

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/18/2010 4:58 pm est

Harmony

slumbering softly beneath a knitted afghan
watching her breath underneath rising and falling
she reminds me of my own being
whose breath also continually rises and falls
slumbering softly beneath a knitted afghan
enrobed in a lining of perfectly fitted feathers

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/18/2010 at 2:04 pm est

Beauty

In the madness of an imagination
some days awake in confused states
sewing the seams of delicate dreams
by the rocking of a beautiful mind
sailing the seas of sustenance

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 05/16/2010 around 2:00 pm est

Respiration

one root infiltrates all
cycling transference
collecting pieces
of rain, of sun, of air

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 5/14/2010 7:47 pm est

Contemplate

without the materialized bullshit
and with a meshing of reality
where flesh and warm blood flows
unlike a painting
I feel pulled apart and onward
towards the unobtainable
that is within reach
just over the blue horizon

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written sometime yesterday

Regression

in chaos of conformity
returning to depths down under
pouring tea with right hand
shooting guns with left
time strikes and tears flow
falling asleep on a pillow
delightfully above desolation

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 5/11/2010 11:32 pm est