About the Author:
I hate doing the about me. I mean, is it really important? Do you really care who I am as a person? Even if you did I can't give you an accurate picture with only a few words in this column. I prefer to think I am much too complicated to be described accurately this way. Of course I could be wrong. You could say I'm in a transition period. Although, I would prefer to think that I have always been the same me, I cannot deny that everything we experience effects who we are to a certain extent, and I have had a rough few years recently on the emotional front. I guess I should consider myself lucky. I once said as a young person that I would rather life be hard than boring, and as it turns out, I have thus far fufilled that wish. Through it all, my love for my family is unconditional and infinite. "I will not pretend, I will not put on a smile, I will not say I'm all right for you when all that I wanted was to be good, and do everything in truth." --Martha Wainwright Here's to doing everything in truth. *raises glass, then downs contents in their entirety* *author looks for a bigger, more encompasing closet* When it comes to truth, it has been my experience that there are more blurred lines than specifically designated boundaries, and even then not many people avoid containing themselves.

Poetry by Heather Malloy

House

Damp grass never rustles
Only succumbs obediently to footsteps
Walking deliberately, remaining silent
Or seen, I walked to the
Lost graves of Darwin's children
And stepping irreverently onto the sod
I built my house of nothing
Acquiring a philosophic foundation
I hired a good contractor; Science and
His reluctant partner Faith made
Lego walls and glorious picture windows
I installed myself

I mold my mind inside this house
Quietly contemplating the various views
Each one content and alone in its glory, not aware
Of its place as merely a piece of the painting
In my universal gallery
I struggle to look through each apart from the others
Careful not to breathe and fog
The beauty and the faults that wait
Till logic leads to insanity

I glare from the center of my house
Like a child I spin around fast
In circles
Blending all the images together
Blurry, blemished rinds unwind
To reveal how
Atlas shrugs when Jesus hits nirvana
While Satan leads the atheists through time
Nietzsche serves meals at the homeless shelter
At which the rich men dine

I spin until the sickness comes
Until I've had enough; I think of sleep
But know that soon the heavy knock
Will assault my door and
I will answer to an angry portrait resident
Complaining about the noise again
Damn the damp grass that never warns
Of indigenous intruders
Seeking shelter
Brewing storms


                               --Heather Malloy


Copyright © 2006 by Heather Malloy
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