Month: March 2017

Mania

Frazzled fire

licks me frenetically.

My mind is the Monday after a holiday weekend

that meandered into a new month,

and the paperwork in me chafes and squeaks.

Behind my eyes I am filing.

I have begun 178 projects.

177 are exactly what I have been needing, what I have been waiting for.

1 is even better.

My eyes,

my hands,

my judgment ache,

and all I can hear is agitated paper.

Scrape scrape scrape.

 

 

Watermother

My watermother holds my heat for me

ambles through my mind reminding me

Hair won’t comb itself.

Yellow cables radiate sunshine and trigonometry.

I think about all the weeds in the sidewalk cracks

of the neighborhood where I grew up.

One woman planted roses,

A confused cloud asked no one in particular,

What does it mean to rain?

Watermother is tender.

She helps me take off my aluminum slippers,

my slummy makeup,

her mind an ever-growing equation like a cancer.

She

The machine is a tap dancer,

is silver,

has nightmares of rust.

She wears the moon on her face in a chalk.

She glows purple when she is near wisdom.

She glows purple among the trees.

 

The ribbon in her hair is forked,

tastes danger on the horizon.

And the robot who has been terrified to bathe for years

clicks his heels ever closer,

curious and cold,

while the ribbon hisses poison in her ear

Forbidden

Her name is Tracy and she looks at men all day

on screens and streets and books.

She is made of desires women are not supposed to have,

her sisters rendered blind by modesty.

Her dearest friend looks only at the swirl of turquoise

feelings that envelope her man

and never the back or the shoulders that Tracy hungers for

at every party,

unwrapping him from his suit while her friend prays over the meal.

And what no one knows except the pantry of his brain,

is he longs to be kissed by her lashes,

loves to be seen as a thrill,

as a man sees a woman

and a woman is forbidden to see a man.

Porn Culture

Branches etch messages in the window panes.

I stare out at the asylums chewing on the victims.

A man has a web server where his heart should be.

A woman saunters past, laminated, glossy, unremarkable and perfect.

and he does not glance up.

His hands are writing a wiki of the world.

His eyes already own hordes of long, tan legs,

trunks of breasts that stand as zeniths of desire.

He has entire folders of ass.

The woman struts smiling.

There will be another man she can pass,

being made only to turn necks and catch eyes.

There has to be.

She cannot plan for another possibility.

Mother Angst

I am snow. Not real snow. I am too thick and fat and warm for that. But I am equally fickle, white, storm tossed, blinding. There are many just like me swirling in this orb. And who I love is this boy. He is so little, his smile almost too wide for the edges of the plane on which we live. He is a good boy, quiet and sad. I know that if I am not his mother I was meant to be. Still, his life is thin, will tear at a touch, and he will slip out of existence like a mirage of water. I will be left tumbling over strange faces who may have that sweet jaw line or wiry hair, but are not my son.