Tag: creative writing

Language

Language babbles like a brook in the snaggle toothed mouth of a baby, but pour like the falls from my cherry juice lips that shine with adoration so my soul mate can see himself in the gleam of my smile. Language smells perky and pertinent and penitent. She lures Silence to his death. Language belongs to no one, and so leaves me every day to rut in the autumnal mouth of another while my mind wanders over a plane of math so wild, imaginary numbers grow like brambles, piercing me. My pureed mind leaks out.





Nothing

I read my bones for answers to all my problems with my x ray eyes. In the hollow tree of winter, a raccoon and a plague of rose scented blood. Winter burrows into my name. Snow fills the chambers of my personality. Suddenly when I speak, hail pops out. My x ray eyes and cold hands pry the truth from the fingers of my enemies, who run a ghost factory in my yard. They are hiring – for ghosts. My eyes are glass anyways. Why not apply? I have lots of experience with zero.

Sex Red Phone

A sex red phone rings off the hook. My lipsticks paint a mural of youth on my face, while my Vitality goes out and lights the faces of younger women. It is true that I’m a candle, but I am also a c sharp note, highest octave. I am living in the light laced shadow of the triumvirate because I am too dappled with darkness to live in the likeness of goodness. The triumvirate of pain, peonies, poison. The mind is a cigarette machine. The phone is still ringing. Myself, age 22 on the end of the line, wanting to know if it all turns out okay.

Micro Fiction – My Grandma’s Trailer

I walk down the rickety lane to Grandma’s trailer, the Taj Mahal as we called it, and knocked on the peeling yellow door. It was a single wide, and the siding was coming off from a recent hurricane. The North Carolina humidity shimmered, speckled with mosquitoes. Then grandma opened, her expansive voice welcoming me into the marble foyer. As she closed the door behind me, I greeted the koi in her fountain.

“What brings you over, Cupcake?” she asked.

“I need to borrow a little TNT for my mom.”

“Ok honey. It seems like every day it’s something, which would be fine but she never returns anything. She still has my cyanide shaker and my mentrual map.”

Grandma takes off, surprisingly spry for a hip recipient, down the corridor on the left. She whisks past the library and the music room, the terrarium room and the aquarium room. She comes back with a carefully wrapped parcel and hands it to me gingerly.

“Be careful. Remind your mother Sunday night is dinner with Father Rohrer and the Zeitgeist of the 80s.”

 

My Seafaring Love

Elizabethan frost coats my cold coated dreams. My husband’s name means rocky place, but it also means steadfast. He’s steadfast in rocky places like the craggy shores of my thalassophobic mind. Mosasaurs prowl the coast of my psyche, hunting stray thoughts as they sail desperately to the blue safety of open synaptic water. My husband is a man of the sea, the tentacles of his love entering my royal chambers like an octopus. He enchants me with his intelligence, his ability to open jars. The sea breeze he carries with him that tousles his hair when we sit in the doldrums of life, currents snubbing us as we drink ink on the beach.

The Accounting and Finance Departments- a poem

Mimeographed Mondays blow around the office of my life in an ancient, unnerving breeze. My boss is capricious and vain. I’m fairly certain the accounting and finance departments are trying to bend me over and make me their bitch. The whole place smells like my grandmother’s carpet. I dream of a beach far away, monochromatic and silent.

Simplicity and Serenity

Simplicity serenades Serenity. Tonight they will make love, and in the apex of desire actualized, they will say thank you and turn away to sleep. I could never be satisfied with fried fire and elastic hope. I need something to hold me, to remind me I am bad but also that I can be good. In 7 days the dead will rise. I must try to get away before then.