My self is pink, punk, lush, plush. Deep in the neon caverns of my rebellious mind, a star studded cast of sins and malcontent. Arrange me like flowers. Prop me in the window to catch the sun and spit back out a million savory colors. Make me better than I’ve ever been. Better: adj. Softer and sweeter. Meticulously I tend my blooming thoughts. Relentlessly, memory flees.
Beauty, Evil, and I
Hot pink Beauty sips matcha, which I hate, but I love her. She teases my curves and curls and reminds me that the name God left for me under my doormat with a key to His heart has many syllables and rhymes with the way the waterfall refreshes. Beauty is generous and wants only to be loved. Evil cuts Beauty’s face off for his own purposes, wearing it as a ghoulish masquerade mask that everyone else believes. But light shines through the holes her eyes once loved, and she continued sipping her matcha, new, soft flesh growing in again – perfect and serene.
The Files – a Poem
Frosted feminine rage is rosè colored and glittering with diamonds cut into shivs. Children cry out from their unmarked graves. The men are sleeping now. Good men sleep while corrupt men slither around our youth, their fangs aimed at our children’s throats. The moon no longer shines his blessing light on what our nation does in the dark. The sun recoils, then blisters the truth as it sits in the light, beaten raw and waiting to be avenged. I slip a dagger from its sheath, and my reflection disappears from the mirror.
Language as Landscape
Language is an undulating plane, verbs shoving mountains upward like so many middle fingers. The adverbs sink like aging glaciers, the clear blue crack of their shattering as they melt under the brutal beams of a neon sun is a sort of music that graces the land. The notes blur and bend with the breeze over jungles of nouns. They tumble over each other, producing their own thunderstorms and ambitions. Pronouns are lush and thick like rivers meandering like women at the yacht club where a dumb boy and a dumber me ran among the fireworks. I is fluffy, is chartreuse chenille and hot pink fleece. I tells stories in the shade of an understanding tree that recount the story of color from the perspective of a blind man. You is a mass of muscle and expectation and hope. We….I don’t talk about those bastards. But They..talk about a complex, red backed, many horned beast! It prowls the prairie looking for I’s to shred and dismember. Language is a world of plush pleasure, rich soil being recycled over and over by thirsty and verbose crops, and hunters of magnanimity.
The Conscripted Bees
The conscripted bees dutifully praise the flowers, letting floral lovers touch through bee as medium. Fluffy bumblebees. Wise honeybees. They all gather around a Georgia O’Keefe painting salivating. I myself am a salacious painting of yellow, and I shake my head no. You can tell bees that flower has no nectar, but as long as the sweating stamen sticks out, they will pant for it. When the painting has been stung by disappointed bees, sunshine flows through the pin pricks like needles of light. The bees return to their vocation, licking the honeycomb anxious children leave behind.
Determined to Conquer
I lock my secrets in the subversive sea. A ghost ship prowls the Bermuda Triangle. A sonnet patrols the circular rims of my sanctioned eyes. Failing to roam the land like a bad idea, I knit myself to the ragged edge of the sea, as it furls and unfurls its turquoise banner against the hostile land. One thing is true. No woman can calculate the cunning of the sea. Dream of it and you drown. Drink of it and you dessicate. My secrets, tucked in their crimson wrapper, will mutate and spawn new life forms. Life that will hurl its body onto the gaping shores of misanthropic continents determined to conquer.
Shameless
The sun retreats to her chalet to party with other hotties. Night slides over me like a tongue, shameless. What shall I name the hurricane born from my meekest breath? Fertile galaxies swirl, swivel, and sway in slinky black gowns sewn with stars like diamonds and pearly planets as buttons down the back. This night does not belong to me, but I will adore it. I shower beneath the silky onyx sky, and warm champagne floats out of the faucet.
Personalized Ghost
Desire hangs inappropriate pictures of pencils on my aging walls, and evidence of knives on my porcelain wrist. I wear pink like a lanyard of honor to show there’s felt underneath my smooth, silken skin. Along the road to perdition, I dropped my glasses. Deftly, Deference picked them up and put them on. She said she could smell numbers. Spicy scent of 2, linger over us like the shrouded lingerie I wear that gets as close to my flesh as it can without ever touching me. I follow him from room to room, not the haunting he thought he was getting, but a personalized ghost nonetheless
Life in an Old VHS
I live in an old film. My sight tears and glitches sometimes, the curves of my form wound in a vhs tape. If you play me back in a time machine, you’ll see rain flying up from the ground – sapphires taking petrichor and tiny fossils of light with them. The producer of this film is smoking by the turnpike. The director melts water and keeps an old ledger book lined with my hair of every time I don’t show up to live.
Glittering Desert of Diamonds Ruled By The Worst of Us
Seas of silty green glitter carry life like a gloat to the unexamined shores of the Present – a glittering desert of diamonds ruled by the worst of us wearing designer bags. The new life will sprout transparent like ghosts, but immovable like a disapproving father. It will reflect life, envy, wealth, inexperience. New money aesthetic laid like a costume over a third world spiritual plane of poverty. We can all dance the Charleston and drink our grandmother’s wine, but our prayers bounce among our children like deflated balloons and the rent has come due on our bodies and we have nothing but glitter and smoke.
Miniature Moon 