illusion is our blindfold

Meditating

My body

My mind

Separation

From the sacred

Mania and domination

By

History and habit

Consumerism

And

Capitolism

I have seen the unseen

Of persecution

And separation

The same blindfold

Humans

Fallen from grace

Thrust divinity

Mother Earth gives life to energy

Blindfolds falling off

I opened my heart

Knowing

That my breath

is air

My energy

Is fire

My blood

Is my spirit

Journeying into transcendent realms

Into a distant heaven

I returned

Illusion is our blindfold

K.K. Powell

All that jazz

I was recently talking to a Bay Area native about music. Do you know how rare it is to meet a native of the Bay Area? Well, a native of anywhere? We are constantly all moving, and wandering the planet for one reason or another. Our talk? Music.

Now I can get down with most types of music. So open your ears, and open your eyes. Sometimes you may just find something that you’ll really like. His goal… turning me on to some Pat Metheny.

The man… silver hair pulled back into a braided pony tail. Apple cider vinegar a day type. His cousin learned guitar from Jerry Garcia. He protested with black panthers in Berkeley and Oakland. He lived through the crack epidemic brought on my you know who, and lives to tell about it.

The movie, “Soul” by Pixar brings up the recent Jazz topic too. Perhaps the newest hot button lately? Escaping your conscious into subconscious with jazz. Look at the painters who lose themselves in jazz while painting, or the writers who lose themselves in writing… with a beat rolling and jumping and flying and diving.

It is now that I really know what this guy is talking about. So… forget your typical sound baths with crystal bowls. Well, don’t forget about it, if you like it … then keep on keeping on. But the point I guess, is that you can get the same feeling from this that you can of that. Because sometimes it is nice to just escape to another planet of sound, and land back on earth soundly.

Working man blues or not?

On Christmas Eve I treated myself to getting my nails done. I have been working hard lately, and taking on extra shifts. The ER can be stressful, but it’s what I choose to do for work. So until Colorado and Paris, only one day off at a time.

I asked the ladies in the nail shop out of curiosity how much time they get per week. She smiled, and replied with one day off per week. She looked tired, but her reality she seemed to be okay with. She was still smiling, and joking around at times! On Christmas Day, I asked the man from Yemen who owned the corner store (where I was buying wine from) how many days he gets off per week. He replied with none. No days off. One year on, one year off… sometimes. He went on to explain how Yemen is at war now. There are no hospitals, and no schools. This makes it so he cannot go home. It’s too dangerous. So for now, he works everyday.

If you are wondering how my Christmas was I will tell you. I will tell you that I was reminded that most of us in America have things very well. Most of us get two or more days off per week. We have schools. We have hospitals. Yes, our current president is an awful man… but he cannot he in office forever. Working hard to reach your goals pays off. Sometimes it is hard, but just remember that there is always someone who has things worse off than you… and sometimes that person is still smiling.

Happy holidays!

-K.K. Powell

She who has no name 

Wife, 1920. 


Reminds me of a doctor I used to work with in a teaching hospital. A resident would put their hand on the patients bed. He would snap at the resident to stand back. If he had a ruler he would have likely snapped it upon the residents wrist. Years later I saw this doctor with his wife outside of the hospital at the airport. Naturally I said hello. His wife smiled sweetly. I extended my hand, she accepted. He said smugly, “This is wife.” 

Was he rude? Was he on the spectrum of autism? Was he socially awkward? Who knows? I was not fulfilled with this answer. I said, my name is Keri… I’m sorry I didn’t quite get your name? She replied… but now the name is lost in my memory. 
This is wife. 

Stolen work

Well as hard as the truth hurts A LOT, I recently found on Instagram today that my work had been stolen by a more popular poet who has been published. It’s my own fault. I never did any copywriting. Still it stings like a bitch! So this website will only be for my own thoughts on others work, posts of work I like, and thoughts on other things. No more of my poetry, nor stories until they have been published though for my own protection.

and lastly…

Fuck you to the guy who blazingly stole my work. I never realized you took pieces of my poem and posted it on your Facebook claiming it to be your own. Especially since a woman had what was “your words” tattooed on her. You’re a phony…and those were actually a woman’s words to begin with… not a mans.

Nobody likes a thief.

Just goes to show. Protect your work people.

I apologize to any follows who liked my poetry and/or stories in the past. I will keep you all updated on any published work in the future.

With love,

-K.K.Powell

The audience.

Three fat sausage fingers slide up and down her shoulder.

His pony tail smooshed to the back of his head…shifted to the right.

He didn’t have time between his nap, and the show.

Too much pot he smoked before the show.

Shewp, shewp, shewp, shewp.

My eyes grow wide.

Fuck…I am stuck next to these two for the next hour and a half.

Schhhhleeeeerp

As the man on the other side sucks his spit through the canyons of his teeth.

The pulled pork threads sit locked and loaded

I want to hear the speaker speak,

I consider asking these annoying people to stop with their annoyances.

Shewp, shewp, shewp, shewp.

Scratch, scratch, scratchity scratch, scratch, scratch.

Scccchhhhleeeeerp.

My upset and overwhelmed brain begins to force my eyeballs out of my head.

I point a my index finger to my left ear to the incessant arm brusher.

For fuck’s sake.

Is the public display of attention THAT important.

Stop that already!

I visualize a mad man lunging toward him.

Grabbing his fingers, and chopping them off one by one.

Wait, is this a nervous tick?

Am I being a dick..?

My tiny index finger is this man’s saving grace.

Sccccchhhhlerrrrrp.

Please?!

Just go get some fucking tooth floss you indigent!!!

Nope, don’t say it.

Don’t be rude.

You drove a long way to hear this man speak…

The speaker speaks.

I fumble in my chair uncomfortably.

His voice rises just enough to muffle twiddledee and twiddledum.

A girl giggles nervously.

Another howls like she used to at a 1980’s arena rock concert.

My name is Ashley…

I’m thiiiiiirteeeen.

As she kisses her nineteen year old boyfriend on the lips.

Slips the tongue.

A french one.

We all know about THAT one.

I snicker.

He speaks, and reads me a tale or two

Then yawn

Lightning strikes from the rugged dark blue and grey clouds above.

His voice carries

as the thunders roll through the purple hills.

Crisis averted for twiddledee and twiddledum.

-K.K. Powell

 

Wild kingdom of Oakland, California

Wild rat scurrying from one bush to the next. My dog salavates, wiggling herself out of her collar moving so fast that she turns to a flash of white lightning. I scream, “oh my god! No! No! No!!!” with an incomprehensible gibberish…the dog is not distracted. Her one thought, “Does it squeak?” Her head buried into the bushes searching frantically. Right, left, left, right. “It’s gotta be close!”… but her luck has flashed right before her compulsive little brown eyes.  Wild cat sized rat is just fast enough, and safe. I laugh so hard at my great American wig out aka scream of fear of plague/rats safety, that I double over in laughter and let out a pigs snort. Attractive man behind me chuckles. Ah shit, save face! My face flushes hot turning red. “You should’ve seen the size of that rat?! It was the size of a fucking cat!” He tells me he would’ve been alarmed too laughing along with me. We part, going our separate ways. I utter to myself, “I’m a total mess.”  Large rats jumping out of bushes are a scary thought. Perhaps less scary if my wild imagination wouldn’t fling me down the rabbit hole occasionally. 

In the night before two cats scream, scratch, hiss, and attempt to end each other’s will to live. It was the talk of the neighbors as I arrive home with the cat sized rat chaser. The dog with pride jumps, and licks snorting away happily at the familiar faces. “Did you hear all that racket last night?”… the owner of my apartments eyes light up. I nod in agreement and state how bad it all sounded. “It was raccoons mating!!! I turned the light on them, and they stopped. Then five hours later they were still there. I wondered if they got stuck?!” Laughter flows, “You’ve got to be kidding me?” His eyebrows raised in amazement goes on to tell me that it’s the god foresaken truth.  Good thing I told the dog to stay close to me that night while she ventured into the dark night to relieve herself. If she tried to get into that action, my heart would’ve likely stopped. 

-K.K. Powell

Grocery Grandeur

The wind howls in the cool wet darkness

The rains ease graciously

The heavy truck door is forced shut by the storm’s breeze

Only to be stopped from latching shut

 by my knee…

ACK!

Synapses

send sparks

and flames

to my brain

The knee burns

and throbs

Maybe it bleeds

Not enough to soak through my jeans

Hey, you got any cash??

I need a hotel room tonight, and I ain’t got no money. 

Sorry, man.

No cash here.

Fluorescent lights

Pupils constrict

Coffee beans

Organic

dark blend

Chocolate, Citris, Almonds.

White wine

Chardonnay

Vanilla, Oak, and Apples.

An overly talkative checker

You two find everything okay?

Oh wait, you aren’t together…

Well, that’s awkward…!!

Now is your chance….

You can crack open your breath mints before you talk to her if you want.

The poor twenty something froze.

His tennis shoes probably a gift from mom,

shortly before she became an empty nester.

All he wanted was his nutella snack,

and his ice breakers mints.

He fumbles to get through the line.

Still he does not turn back.

Back to the cool dank night

Dog kibble scattered on the ground.

Her pupils

pin point

dark to light

light to dark

pin

point.

Well, NOW can I have money.

Sores cover her pale face

Short hair knotted sporadically atop her head

No, you cannot have money.

I am not your ATM.

The dog eats her kibble

off the concrete.

A sense of entitlement

used by instability.

Drunk off the overindulgence of humanity.

-K. K. Powell