Month: November 2024

Vice – a Vision

I fill my prescription for vice and carry it home. The birds snub me at the sight of it. In the family room, a river flows clear as glass. I will inject insight in ten minutes. First, I must cool off in the freezer, my blood snow crystals protruding from my wasted heart. Letters float down the river, boat shaped thoughts from those abandoned on the shores of paradise with plastic strangling them. People in my taxonomy run up the current to bury our dreams, and then we die. Vice is heavy, fills the syringe slowly like syrup. I will glow with my own private, disinterested light. Cold light, liquid light, light around my bones. My sins a dark figure behind me seen through to as the light beams into me mercilessly. In the corner, dust bunnies paint my corrupted face without pity.

Succulent Batteries

China chips at a touch in this no woman’s land of despicable hungers. In the parlor, Good and Evil spurning their tools of trade. This text is a flashlight in a dark, resentful woods. This text is  a bridge between the two factions of my consciousness. This text is an apology to the blue underside of memory. On the river, the dead decay loudly. But here in the house I give birth to baby’s breath. Good smokes pungent herbs on my back porch telling stories of his youth in New England. Evil sucks the juice from my most succulent batteries. Everywhere satisfaction is missing.

Abstract Paintings

For several years, I have focused on poetry on this blog. I want to see if my readers enjoy my art too, or if it should be on a separate blog. I kind of what this to be my catch all creative blog. I paint a lot, so I have a lot of art to show. Poetry is my first love and my focus, but visual art and photography have become important to me as well.

Short Poem

The rough light of sunrise
Tousles my essence.
Though I still dream,
I stroll out to the street
To measure the wishes of the industrious.
Closed doors everywhere.
At the end of the street,
Independent light floating above the city refuse
Like a sliver of the Divine

The Poem

The poem is feral, climbing under the bar and making a shirley temple with vodka. My body is bereft. My spirit sits outside myself flying my middle name on a ribbon like a balloon. The poem tells a tattooed man a story about that time she and____ burnt down the auxiliary doorway to Invisible Beauty. I grab the poem and she kisses me, her curves burning me. Fusing to my own. Tangential heavens speed away from the crime scene. The poem stumbles out of the bar. I stumble away from the bottle. We collapse in the meadow with the horses and she injects pure liquid ecstasy in her delicate veins. As her translucent skin bruises, I see the stars blink and then shut. Blackness overtakes us like old age, slowly then all at once.

Veiled Woman

The memory disease is tiny,
Born on the wind like pollen,
pus scented.
One inhale from frail lungs,
and the disease enters like a rockstar.
Makes its way through the splendid cavern
that is the body,
til it reaches the brain
I wear a veil over my hair
to conceal my secrets.
What is sacred is veiled.
The Tabernacle.
The woman.

Beneath a mirror sky
Daughter upon daughter dances.
The meek and the bold
Both drowned in the Flood.
Sometimes,
In my dreams,
A gigantic wave towers over me,
Watches me,
Waits for the right moment to come
crashing down.

I wake to the sounds of
A deceitful beach.

Same dream for 10 years.
One day the sea will ensnare me.

I veil the sun,
Bar graphs,
Music.

The seagulls on this beach
hunt whales.

The sun,
Jealous of my youth,
Paints me the texture of old age.

What is Holy will be revealed
at the Emerald throne.

The greenery gets a vote.
In the old shed I call girlhood,
a slingshot and a rock.

Mother Mary was sighted
at the Thanksgiving parade.

Prayer settles on me like dust.
I cough half remembered scripture.

At the seashore,
a locket with a picture of
myself
(A red dictionary of moods),
and Christ
(A fisher of Men).

Winter

Silver trees sparkle,
the diamonds of January.
The fireplace is a dear old friend
from a nudist colony.

The mystery is that
there is no mystery.
Everything is as promised.

There are commercial breaks
from the interesting.
Sales on refurbished hearts.
The galaxies speed away
From one another
as though broken by a cosmic
infidelity.

Winter is a parable
for surviving without Love –
that cheerful shyster with
echocardiograms tattooed on.

Getting Committed – a Micro Memoir

They took my bra because of the underwire. My breasts were free, but I was not. I couldn’t wear my sneakers from my husband because of the laces. And I could not bring in any of my pens to write poetry. They couldn’t let us have the things that made us comfortable or happy. We might kill ourselves, you know.