The Blue

Slatternly clouds disrobe the blue sky, peeling away for storms in another dimension of cool correlations. My causation is staring at me, unblinking. The sky is exactly what I mean when I say I was blue, flying my kite down Main Street and making promises to tree tops. I hear a wind summoning me to the brink of winter, the culmination of the cold leaking in the edges of unsealed autumn.

Memory

Mem    ory has a whole hole in it, made as it is like fishnets from the corner store. My cornucopia of vanilla flavored dreams are cataloged by neurons who are all drinking Everclear on the job. My menstruation is meant as an affront to the cold. Memory is embroidering “welcome home” on doileys they pass out to the homeless on President’s Day. If my name doesn’t make sense to you, it’s because your inspiration is flowing backwards. Memory is flimsy and frail. I once swallowed scissors, and that was the end of my life’s record. Now, the dark halls of my brain are mostly silent, except for the wind whistling through my eyes.

My Lover’s Silver Hair


Ambition disguised as snow coats the city suits in a light dusting. Christmas in the city…or the collection of bridges and turnpikes we call home with the vague flavor of discomfort in our mouths.  Christmas laced with martyrs’ tears, glowing as icicles outside shop windows.  The cold here wears a roledex and diamonds. As the time gently but surely crumbles away like Christmas cookies, I yearn to be even half as permanent as the flakes on my lover’s silver hair as he builds another world for me.

Honey and Hell

Hexagonal childhood spreads its honey over my spreadsheets. The facts were all I was asked for, and they smell like ocean and regret. Shadows compute in the closet, the blue screens scathing the disillusioned shadows whenever their electric blue light touches them. The numbers are fossilizing in amber honey. I have weighed myself on the balance and found myself wanting. So many digits away from heaven, and every new year is a countdown to hell.

Woman

A woman’s body is a playground. They are jungle gyms made of softness and gentleness. The yellow stripes tattooed on bees are slivers of anxient sunbeams. Some truths cannot hold us. The fire hisses out in the hearth of our collective memory, and we are each assigned an idea to degrade. Woman is a fallen tree. A woman’s mind is a 4 course meal. A woman is herself when summer ends and leaves her holding a cute tote with “Try me” emblazoned on it in red letters.

Beauty and Envy

Calling her frenemy on a blue telephone, Beauty shellacs her nails with diamonds. Envy is smoking herbs in her palace, blinded by the bling of corporeal existence. She laughs at all of Beauty’s jokes, and then sticks pins in her secret effigy of her. Beauty is anaesthetized by her delusions of modesty, and she doesn ‘t feel the tiny bit of life drain out of her. Beauty and Envy hold hands when they play, skipping and singing saphically through the corridors of life. I am in the old red Dodge, my headlights going feral, driving to the point of no return. When I get there, I discover an old gas station playing Orgy and a closed book store with a neon, glowing open sign. My obituary was hot pink.

Human History

Harvesting heroes from an alluvial plane of flooding horrors, Noah in a row boat with his wife and one rabbit. This world is hell’s foreplay. Extinct, I haunt the museums of old. Man has forgotten his speech and yells pitifully at the sun who cooks him in cancer. Nothing good survives Destiny with a laser gun. In empty museums,  human history is recited to the disdainful dust.

The Fine Print

Crisp bubbles crinkle as they pop open on my sharp personality. I have a sticker collection bigger than you. The rowboat that seemed so superfluous is becoming essential as the river rises from my eyes. I need to row to a land of roses and pinwheels, where the refining fire of delirious faith is as sweet as honey from charitable bees. The fine print in life’s lease is that you are responsible for maintenance of the machine.