The curve of my hip presses into the jealous air. Air and light vie for my skin’s adoration. So often, my silk casing lies in the sun drying out, making love to the light in front of Breeze and everyone. Light is a selfish lover, taking more than he gives. Air is the lover my convex body craves, my breasts in their bra a topographical map of desire. Air whispers idiosyncratic verses into my eager ears and strokes me lightly on the thigh, stokes the fire between my ears. I am alive with error and noble aspirations.
Category: poetry
Inspiration- or Crime and Punishment
The raindrops watch me furtively, avoiding my thirsty skin as they fall. The elevator will go down and down until the dead are dancing on you. The resin ballerina at the old wrought iron gate at the precipice of punishment resonates with me. Please commute my sentence or send me to the joy mines. Elegance and Grace get drunk off old rose at my great pearl table. In the yard with the whip cream colored unicorns, lightning licks little Lisa with bolts of genius like bolts of fabric to stretch over the folds of her cerebrum. Rainbows croon in every euphoric hue.
The Future Comes to Collect
The future comes to collect minutes from my aging face. Mitosis carries out in every cell to the rhythm of Bailamos. The code corrupts like a politician. The future wears a blue gown and a crimson pelerine. Minutes vacuumed off the edge of my life now will make daisies grow in the future. I tell her to take them. My bones walked off the job, and I’ve been melting into new days. From the back of my telepathic woods, the past comes to compete for my guilt and my telomeres.
The First Christmas in North America
In the bleak midwinter on a brackish morning, while the vultures watched their breath freeze above the drowsing marsh, salvation arrived. People carried on with their weddings and wars. Nutritous flora was farmed, and water ran forever into herself. But the world had changed, and in the silent bogs of what will one day be Indiana, the stones cried out in praise of who was, and is, and is to come.
The Love of a Woman is a Desert Dweller
Cool sonnets soak the sweat off my cracking skin. Here in the desert, ghosts made of love hover everywhere. The cacti are ringed in bubblegum pink halos. The love of a woman is a desert dweller. If you water it a little bit once a century, it will cling on, carving your name on grains of sand. Just the tiniest drop will keep it alive. He met me in the onyx city shellacked with heat. My dance card was full, and then he tattooed his name on my silky spirit and wiped my mismanaged hours away. Somewhere, my old self dances and dances because if she stops, she will die. But here in the parched peace of premium paradise, I can rest my weary bones with the ghosts and count my pinkest wounds.
Vision 12/22/24
Hear the blue holler of the electric cat under the full moon. Low and mournful rivers flay rocks. I have been granted a gift of visions. I will be able to be at peace with and fully connected to God. Poetry is the window. Keep the judgmental adverbs away from me. Though wilderness and wildness cloak me like fog cloaks an autumn woods, though I am thick with stars and statistics, I will reach euphoria
Buttons
Violet fancies whisk me away to a paradise of buttons and zippers. Imagine being able to hang into every good thing, tight fisted like a covetous toddler. Buttons are images of togetherness. My dress, the way it drapes over my body like a sheet hiding old furniture. This house is haunted by the ghost of fall. Zipper in Spanish is a beautiful word. My language doesn’t have a word for the feeling I’m surviving right now, but my blood pulses to the cadence of someone else’s imperial march. The Button Museum is in Connecticut, a short drive from the land of split seams and cruel themes.
Flowers
Friendly flowers clamor
For my scantily clad attention
And my runaway money.
We bring corpses into the house
To freshen our rooms,
Our wounds,
Our wombs.
I press grass,
Leaves.
My leaving a black spatter on my mother’s door.
Flowers are gregarious narcissists.
My mother is a flower
I plucked from my rib cage.
See how the sun croaks her old song,
Raining dry energy and
Nefarious bruises on us all.
36
My biological clock is tangerine textured and linen flavored. It ticks almost cutely beneath the kitchen sink as images of Man and his daughters dissolve in a pan of citrasolv above. My clock, let’s call her Norina, is fashionably late. My eggs play badminton in my cramping womb, and I feel the children that could have been vaping in my chest. Norina knows she will end soon, an Armageddon all her own, her own chapter in my personal book of Revelation. The greatest gift in life is life, and Time is scooping it out of me like ice cream. I have so little to offer. I was built to be soil for a generation of redwoods. Instead I’ve become the grime at the bottom of an old casserole dish, growing age and disrespect.
Christmas Eve
Salvation writes His manifesto in these dark hours of living. A child is born, light scented and perilously full of love. Salvation will begin and end in blood, in pain, in unjust humbleness. Beauty sprouts from dust, just as it always has. Just as the camellias jab their smiling faces through sheets of ice to lend the dead world their color. Christmas gleams like a gem on each desiccated year because the light of our savior shone through the eyes of a child. That light, that sweet, serene fire, is purifying us for endless euphoria.
Miniature Moon 