The Atmosphere
Author: Lisa Marie
Light and Heat
What does the light ray feel
Falling to her death on
My skin?
When the end is near
She does not perceive darkness
Where she is, the dark is not.
When she is gone
She is cancerous trash
The heat is her child
And will move on
To other mothers
Maybe she feels what I do
When I close my eyes
Wilted.
Hell Is
It rains on desert,
Granola,
Landsscape.
The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.
He had the levels of hell all wrong.
There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.
Hell is a life if obligator dancing.
Beer
Beaches of lime and slow.
We are home to the most unpopular beer.
I have a lot to drink here
but eat slowly.
Threatening texture
Physical.
Overload
I am basically overloaded lately. I can’t get through the evening without an anxiety attack that is crippling. It builds all day. So much light and color and things to do. I’m at the doctor now.
UPDATE
I had a full blown panic attack at the doctor’s office. They put me on oxygen and gave me an injection of something.
Something has me wound so tight. Meds maybe. Or just sensory overload, Asperger’s style. But I have anxiety every day. The doctor gave me a new prescription to take as well. He isn’t my psych, but he took care of things, which I needed.
Just praying for calm soon, and that the medicine will alleviate the problem when I need it to. Klonopin is a huge help, but by law quantities are limited. Lately the anxiety has been more than I can cover with my allotted Klonopin.
Justice
Justice is a poor best friend,
Sticking knives in me
Where I can see them.
I reach for the cookie
He slaps me gently
I smell the desiccated marsh
He holds my hand on rollercoasters.
It wouldn’t be fair
For me to die when I
Have been so innocuous
But the tide looked
Innocuous and the
Fish is dead.
I am not a reed in the marsh.
When he takes me home
He always takes the
Long route
Adam
Help the baby in cashmere
This is a heinous place
To be born.
I have been in the spider’s
Web a long time,
Most of me liquified.
Most.
She keeps a little of
Me alive
For amusement
There are bitter stones
Everywhere
With no water to
Wear them away
Find a garden somewhere
Lay him down beside the bees
Name him Adam.
Touch Needed
Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
Choices
Piquant wood shavings
build houses from one another.
Natural selection,
the choices of the man in the barn with his saw.
The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.
If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.
Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.
When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.
Prose Poem
The well-off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.
Rough draft
Miniature Moon 