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.
Osteoarthritic Mind
Nutritious music feeds my osteoarthritic mind. In my closet, glowing bones white hot with the fury of ideas discarded. In a pond in the wilderness of memory, a monster patrols. My face is a floodplain. Many drown in the gravity of my sunken eyes and the whirlpool of my ceramic breath.
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.
Innocence
When they dragged the victims of every bad idea out of the mauve river of industrial regret, I wept. The remnants of innocence lay decomposing in various shades of gray beneath the judgmental sun. Angels in this land are silent. Psalms transmutated to shrouds of golden cheese cloth. Housewives everywhere adorn themselves with moods of crimson and royal purple. Domesticity wears a mini skirt and teaches me to beat the devil at every arcade game. Innocence once wept with me when I buried my inexperience at the altar of fear. Now I watch her crumble and blow away along the banks of a river that will claim my grandchildren.
My Love and My Lover
My love and my lover are opposites. My love is a plump, juicy, neurotic thing encrusted in velvet and peridot. My lover is stony, imposing, a boat fighting currents deeper than fate. When I wake in the late, crumbly hours of a scrumptious morning, covered in a concealment of love and merriment from my unwashed mind to my perfect thighs, I dream of his love. Leaning over me, his love whispers a realm of goodness into future legacy. What binds us together is stronger than ocean and faster than light. In the evening we swap blood and ghost stories.
Insanity is a Comet
Above the filthy hills of my insolent mind, a sun rising. Ideas are suns and stories are planets of diamond that revolve around them, cold and spectacular. This sun is chartreuse and smells vaguely of old valentine’s candy. My private planets puncture preconceived notions of orbital perfection. A circle is a key. Perfection is grift. I long to embody a sun so bright God will put on sunglasses and say, “Well done, daughter. Enjoy the thrill of uncontained creation.” But I am constantly dimmed by insanity, a comet that flies overhead and casts a long shadow into my life
Miniature Moon 