The Line

“The Line”

 He said…..

“I know where the line ends”

Breathing heavily

Chest caved in.

Standing before me

Un-pompous for once

Before the swallowing

Of blackened, cracked

desert earth.

An unfamiliar view of the line?

The one his ego successfully

toy’d with, maneuvered, expanded

according to his every need.

Rubber banding it

Spreading it so thin

As it desperately bucked each time

to keep its shape.

Shattered now…..

Pieces lay between my brow

Permanently changing the crease of reality

from then and now.

Chipped now …..

Pieces of domestic bliss

Scattered on the kitchen floor

Of sacred meals never to be served.

Cracked now….

Pieces cover and consign to the grave

the velvet smoothness

of her loving hands.

He said…….

“It’s not horizontal, but vertical”. 

Before he crossed it and after it cracked

He sat a little too long on it

And when he looked below

Got a glimpse of Hell”.

….. that’s where the line ends.

By: Yvonne Zepeda


“Third Floor Heaven”

How many of us have had to start over in life? Difficult but exhilirating!  Enjoy!

“Third Floor Heaven”

We all have a choice,

Between the first, second and third floor.

Signing a name I no longer use.

A pen on fire, branding the beginning of my single life.

Coming from the BOTTOM of a matrimonial pit of Hell

The thought of being at the TOP

Sounded kinda heavenly and drew me in.

You know, a sense of newfound independence,

symbolic and unwavering, coming into my new self.

Okay, okay……

Or maybe just the damn honest truth.

If you rent  apartments on the top floor,

You get a discount and pay less.

And no fool will wanna break into your apartment

From the third floor.…. Right?

You don’t have to hear your damn neighbors

Running around, getting it on and dropping heavy shit

On the floor above you.

And the view above the trees

Watching the Fourth of July Fireworks

From the third floor

Is gonna be the shit!

Sitting with a glass of red wine

On my balcony, listening to my windchimes

Thinking back six months ago on that day

I laugh.…..  

Bare feet propped up on a table,

I like the new muscles that have formed on my legs

from climbing three floors up every day.

And I’m glad for the fact,

That on Saturday nights,

Coming home at 4:00 am

After drinking too much,

I haven’t fallen on my ass

All the way down.

Now, who wants to go inside?

Run around, get it on and drop some heavy shit

On the floor?

……. Third Floor Heaven.

“Touch of an Artist”

“Touch of an Artist”

Last night he showed me his portfolio. Filled with sketches in pencils, charcoal and ink on tea stained and brown colored paper.  I was surprised how small the pieces were – no bigger than 5×7″ or so; of animals, mystical creatures and studies of the female figure.  Drawings with fine and exquisite lines and details.  I could tell he spent many hours with careful consideration working on them.  But, most of the pieces we’re left half-done.  I wondered why?  And when I asked him…… he said something about “that’s where it ended” the feeling of inspiration or his desire to create it. 

As he spoke, I could see his eyes move over the paper longingly, adoringly as he talked about his work and what inspired him at that time.  I listened quietly, and my mind slipped into his story.  I see him designing every curve of her.  Every cross hatch a hint into her character and desires and ways of her womanhood.  I couldn’t help but want to be his canvas.  Every pencil mark pressed firmly onto me, imprinting his intentions.  Every finger blending shapes into a sense of permanance.  And as he blows eraser stubble from the paper, my body is kissed by his breath.

At the end of the night before our goodbyes, his face snuggled in the crease of my neck, feeling the warmth of him and not wanting him to leave.  I could feel my eyes glare over and the deep desire to be the piece that’s finished to the end…. the final draft, the piece that’s not left half-done.  Sketch by sketch, blend by blend, shaded, highlighted….. til every inch is explored by the touch of an artist.