In the Wilderness of my Ambitions

In the gold, twilight wilderness of my ambitions, aspen trees grow. Birch trees grow. Black eyes beaming out of flaking white casing, leaves as yellow as orgasms. The hills are humongous and roll up and down with my psyche. By the burlesque pond, my skin shining in the sun from beneath my judgmental shroud. The shore is fundamentally erotic. An electrical storm in my kitchen cooks lasagna and lights my breath up with pink flame. In my eyes, the reflection of an overtaxed, underrepresented ghost. I will climb trees and wait for my inner child to float back to me.

On Aquidneck Island

In the verdant, sylph like morning, my younger self dreams. On Aquidneck Island, a sea monster eating Ma’s Doughnuts. Just the doughnuts. Ma smokes soft, salty dreams in the back while she bakes in love in every bite. My hunger is a form of weeping. The hole in me changes shape, being made of wind and sea. Wine dark, my thoughts creep over the hill and into the soft, lush grass of the sleepy old battlefield. My older self is a shadow among the birch trees, watching little me tenderly as she builds her boat. She will set sail under the negligent moon.

Broken Teeth and U Shaped Smiles

On the underside of a horror story, my ghosts crawl along the walls to the dayglo exit. Reality is a bitter elixir that suits their broken teeth and U shaped smiles. Math drinks absinthe in the corner, telling stories of the world’s end. The universe will end not in a bang, but in a whisper. One soft plea for togetherness after the stars have pulled themselves into dank regions of brutal isolation. My ghosts are ride or die. I will ride with them or they’ll stitch my name in nightfall and feed me to the remnants of demonic empires.

Blue Stars and Vanilla Numbers

Stars in shades of navy, denim, cobalt, and pool circle my broken halo. My halo is made of an olive branch. In the almond flavored yellow light of disposable memories, my mother bakes pies for canaries. The coal mine in my heart has been unsealed, and the cutest bats fly out in an onyx symphony of mammalian, primal joy. The canaries sing alleluia in shifts. My halo sprouts thorns that grow into me, piercing my mulberry shaded thoughts with a steady stream of diagnosis for the recalcitrant weather. Soon my maker will sew me into the space time continuum with its vanilla integers in prim rows like headstones.

Love Lives

In the glowing dawn, Morning with her citrus aura sips mimosas and beckons me to come, drink, discuss my love life. I am the ballerina of a song. The butterfly of a flower. The lock for his key. Morning tells me of her long distance boyfriend, Evening. They will never meet, but write epistles of fire under starlight pearlescent and plump.

The Tongue

Malicious, sloppy rumors roll over the undulating landscape of public opinion. The topographic map of regret is filled with many bulls eyes. My name was hauled out of mud and dropped into ash. My ambitions computate the beauty of a last sunrise before the sun begins to follow me everywhere, the light burrowing into my dreams. I used to hide from monsters in the dark. Now I follow them in bondage under the reign of the infectious light. The human tongue is a wrecking ball with spikes.

A Jellyfish at Heart

I am a jellyfish at heart, soft and pink and dangerous. As I drift through the miasma of life, most of the blue toothed predators don’t think I’m worth eating. What a blessing to be so inconsequential. The blueness everywhere haunts me like a sister dead set on revenge. In the reefs, fish float upside down in the flotsam, not dead, but only gymnasts frozen in time.

A Refugee on the Dark Side of the Moon

The regal, royal day reigns over the sun razed earth, stroking the depths of our sins with highlighters. Nothing can hide here. My shadow is a refugee on the dark side of the moon. What spider weaves his web of clouds to catch airplanes like bugs and devour travelers? In the cult of tomorrow, be an afterthought. Alien darkness will steal day’s territory as the hours sprint away from us.

A Library Card as a Weapon

The bankers prowl the shores of decrepit democracy seeking pigtailed children to devour. I have been a little girl for 37 years, chasing a shade of blue so perfect I know I will feel immaculate ecstasy when I find it. Roaming over the dessicated remains of the free world, I wear a cloak of love poems and carry a library card as a weapon. The bankers are closing in on all of us, teeth sharpened to a point more piercing than truth. There is nowhere to run. Now I must learn to see without eyes, sew my future without hands, and sing hymns to my God of spilled wine.