Feral, calendar scented clouds claw their way across a luxury ultramarine sky. Twilight – and the storms are tucking in for the night – typhoons sleeping off shore, waiting to pounce during union working hours. I sit on the porch smoking memories of multidisciplinary Mondays where every day was a synthesis of time and color. I am not on speaking terms with line, but texture knows my home phone number. The used Mondays are aromatic like my old personality, years before my diseased mind wiped my name off my birth certificate. What is the most effective way to move a mountain through my veins?
Category: Uncategorized
Lisa Elsewhere
Cylindrical sisterhood rattles down my childhood lane like a can. The wind was never my friend. My feral blood echoes its request for a sedative. The life within me is hot and knows no peace. My sister rides a unicycle, holding hands with everything we mean when we say, “I had a good time. Really.” My bones slide safely from my skin, prop up a Lisa elsewhere who chews snowflakes for their originality and drinks the blood of the Lamb.
No Satisfaction
Wrapped in the same name as my nemesis, a theory frictioning frantically with a reality so sharp that it cuts, and the theory is bleeding, and we drink too much at lunch. Too much. The ice in the pond is too much. A patchwork of cold. The theory of feminine wild wiles can get no satisfaction. She bares her hair to a hillside of honor and visibility. An elevator, snipped from its cable, floats toward frosty regions of unprepared wine.
Eschatological Mess
Lightning embroiders excitement in the bruised sky. Clouds call my name in a whisper that smells like adventure. I have become one with my back porch. Not the one my father once painted red. The one coated in stardust and crass lemonade. My home is built from my rib and will submit to my will. Home is a flower with benzos in the petals, my tiredness a river of parasitic glass carving obscenities down a mountain. I long to make this eschatological mess into a nest for babies and birds, but my frazzled mind licks sunshine for the sour buzz.
Bratty Dreams
The world kicks back a cola while bratty dreams kick a deflated ball around my yard. Daily, I feed chickens, Regret, and Damage. My electrocuted soul is singed and sweet and sweats longing. Longing looms like predestined lore over me. I once could do great things. Now my speech is crusted over with child like confusion. I want to remember the information that swam up and stung me in my friend’s pool, but like all gelatinous goodness, the only record of it is on my thighs.
Borders
Sly silky whispers
Wander through the wonders
Of my electrified mind.
Fluorescent thoughts identify themselves
As refugees
At the border of my consciousness.
We are all running.
The question is whether we run from
Or to.
Slowly,
Methodically,
Time wanders between my synapses,
Pruning blooms I tended tenderly for years.
Thoughts have names they use among each other.
I know one is named Lila and another Lorelei.
The rest are on a list floating
down the river to a sea
Filled with monsters.
Which thoughts will I permit entry?
The neon pink ones,
Jittery and cracked out?
The Kelly green thoughts hauling
Wares of wisdom?
He will cost a lot of power.
My lights flicker at the thought.
How about the putrid cyan thoughts,
Hauling their starving children up
Out of the deepest pits in a mind
Of iniquity?
Instead,
I open up to
Lemon yellow
And her sweet forgetfulness.
The Hth Symphony
The Hth Symphony
As dull as licking the window pane
Flavor of CPA licensure
Or funeral home director.
It works it’s waves through the folds
Of my wounded mind,
And I remember how
The snowflake flashed “help “ in Morse code
As it glistened to death in my warm hand.
Velvet transpires with Chantilly lace
To pluck Hth out of the air,
Twist it around and stretch it,
Bleeding pink dreams as it distorts beyond recognition.
What makes you the most qualified applicant
To modernize sound for the sensibilities of the dark?
If you gather courage from the mangroves bleeding orange juice,
You may be able to tolerate the Gth symphony.
If that is too tangy an endeavor for you,
It’s chutes not ladders for you,
For the rest of your
L
I
F
E
Ghosts
Ghost is a noun,
a verb,
A philosophy.
The spilled milk curdles
on a floor I have no time for,
as I float toward the sun roof.
I left behind a peril of poison
to enter this paradise.
So many ghosts march outside,
sliding past my windows
to a war I have left.
Sometimes you can take
your ball and go home,
but home is some place new and blue.
Long Time No Chat
It’s been a while since I used this sweet little blog. Life has been busy. We lived in Florida for two years. We had a beautiful pink house by the beach. I could see the water and listen to the waves from my porch. Definitely the experience of a lifetime. I miss it.
My daughter is in the double digits now. She’s growing up so fast. Right now we’re enjoying summer break and spending time together. She is so smart and kind and creative. She has always been an absolute joy. We are immeasurably proud of her.
I’m still a poet, but I’ve gotten really into film photography. I love instant cameras and cheap disposables or holgas. I am somewhat obsessed. I paint too and make collages. Art is so therapeutic.
I finally took the plunge and got an iPad so I can do digital painting too. I adore Procreate. I get every brush I can find.
Life is good. We have changes coming to our family, and we are all so excited. Oh, and we have two dogs now. The last time I really used this blog we didn’t even have one, but now we are a two dog household and I love it. I have been stretching and growing creatively. If all goes well I might be publishing a book this year.
The sampling above is a sliver of what I’ve been doing. We have taken great trips, I’ve learned new skills (I cook and bake and I’m learning embroidery!), and my husband is doing great in his career. All in all, I just feel super blessed and grateful.
Life
Hey guys. From now on I am using this blog for art and writing. I have another blog I will use to write more personal things, so family, faith, mental illness, and parenting will be discussed over there. This blog is a creative diary and portfolio. I want two separate blogs for two separate purposes. I have noticed in likes and comments that some of you are here for art or writing, and some like the personal posts. There is very little crossover. Time to separate these things.
Miniature Moon 