Theocracy of Granite

When the pain of my sinner’s shell is sufficient, I will shed it in a desert of my own making and grow a holy cathedral over my delicate glass body with the worn out, crimson heart. Sin scours the sands looking for beasts of burden to shackle. In the bottle of a glass of Holy Water, the egg of a dove kept perfectly warm. I was born to a theocracy of granite in a land as old as rebellion. There I will return to lay my crystal foundation.

Dance

Hot pink arrows glow and show the way to the ravine of raves in the orchard of my 71st year. What futuristic ballet will require us to register to feel the wind on our backs, and then bend us until our change falls out? Anachronistic society still wears gleeful republic garb, but inside parasitic politicians patrol the boundaries of the public body. I will dance or I will be damned. God, in his suit of 4 leaf clovers and purple legacy, gave me a song with my name engraved inside.

What More Does Destiny Desire?

The white west wind knows me like a sister. I am a debutante among daffodils. I am an undulating plane of pretty, pastoral landscapes of Navy lakes and hereditary hillocks. Incensed by intergalactic incense, I find matter droll. The west wind wiles away the day with a crochet hook and a lighter. Opportunity doesn’t knock. It bites you in the back with fangs like a spider until you grab it and look into its avid eyes. My lakes have primordial women swimming in them. My hillocks are illicit and vast. What more does Destiny desire?

A Woman Bound

Waltzing across a wide and withered world, I flounce my skirts of tulle and starlight. I’m a claimed woman, his name sewn in flannel on the outskirts of my pink existence. My boundaries are purple and regal as an empire’s final sunset. My man’s hands are dinosaurs – viscerally fantastic and dangerous. When he prowls through the lairs of seamonsters to find me a pure pearl of wisdom to shine on my neck, the sea reflects the moon and his eyes watching my body like a specimen of clutchable cloud. What does it mean to be a woman unbound? She is in her mortal state, that woman, wearing a tapestry of outgoing tide and longing. My name was once a lonely thing. Now it’s complete, and my God of orange and expertise calls me by that moniker.

Hunting Hauntingly

Take my life and let it be a strand of pearls around the neck of the strongest shark in this reef of rainbows and diamonds. My spirit leaks a little. He asks if I’m crying. I am not. My name, however, is weeping with shame. Take my life and let it be yours. When he throws my love letters in the air, they explode in pink and blue like fireworks. By the reef’s edge, predators hunting hauntingly.

Alkaline Angels

Alkaline angels freshen the twilight with blue, twitching light. There is an impatience in me blooming like a black dahlia and laced with oleander. The light here is alive and learns everyone’s name but mine. My shadow runs ahead of me. I limp and stumble trying to keep pace with that dirge-singing child of obfuscation. Everything here is primed to bloom, but in my spine, the root of an oval organism miming its way into my esoteric being.

The Small Packet of Miraculous Insight

Could you hand me the small packet of miraculous insight laying down by the invertebrate river, meandering as it does through the mind, curving and cutting the manly wild of flower soaked land? My father buried an axe here. My mother, a key. In the cool dawn of my effervescent identity, a strange blue wailing I only recognize later as my name. Hungry, the moon descends to feast on the horrified dark. The sun illuminates you and me now, honest as soap stripping away filth. Hand me the packet. I am going to see the color of angels.

A Meadow of Math

I wake up in a meadow of math. Multiplication is everywhere and the bees dance in their polyphonic language. Here lies truth – sunbathing drunk in a dagguerotype a hundred and 30 years old. The ghosts of mistakes past plunder the pansies at the edge of the valley. Mountains are but vaults of information buried with the dead.