Tag Archives: creative writing

9,19,29

Today I am 9, 19, 29.

I look out my window to the used days,

see saw toothed predators

hunting my small, oblivious

head in the long grass.

I am suffocated by the

fire and brimstone perfume

of my own being

as I tiptoe back and

forth between heaven and

hell each day.

I long to let my hair

cascade down my back,

to strip naked in the

unblinking square

and ask the strange things

with six rows of teeth

to take my shame from me

like an unwanted cloak.

Yesterday at dinner,

I was a vulture vivisecting

a yellow canvas,

my talons raw as milk.

Beautiful Machine

I am binary,

a code with so many zeroes,

and you are the one.

You have a thick, plush

user interface.

Use me for your gossamer

sweat purposes.

If you rewrite me,

make me a file.

Organize your unchained

thinking of me.

You are a prodigy of design,

pure energy in an age

of tarnished sleep.

Rifle through me,

incorporate whatever

spherical zeroes will make

you whole,

though you lack nothing,

transmit a rain-laced joy

like a virus.

My Mode of Living

I’m free of rain.

I show my picture to the blank mirror.

I was not busy in my shiny days

and now I see

clouds of apologies ahead,

burning bronze.

 

My shape shifting selfishness

Folded into a skin box,

Origami.

 

My life was born for a while,

between sameness and joy.

 

Ten times I memorize myself,

candy candle

I have to light,

To guide kaleidoscope perception

Back home to me.

 

Interdependence is difficult and soft,

ad infinitum.

Nervous to Dive In

Today is the first day of the goal I set yesterday – to write my poetry every day. I have not yet written anything new, although I am revising some poetry I have already written.

For some reason, I am afraid to dive in. My mind is sort of ducking in and out of my emotions like a rock skipping over water. If I dive too deeply, I may not come up.

On some level, I’m afraid of my mind. I don’t write confessional poetry, so it is not as though I’ll be diving into personal problems and emotions in a direct way if I begin writing a poem. But I get into this space, this cold silky space, when I write and sometimes I just slide deeper and deeper into solitude once I start. This can feel rejuvenating, but I am on the border mentally right now and if I slide too far below the water I don’t know what will be waiting for me there.

I have to push forward. I’ve set a goal, and that goal must be accomplished. I can’t just give up, especially on the first day. It might be cold, but I need to sink down and scrape the images from the coral crusted bed of my head.

Union

Seeing is cataclysmic.
Hearing has rendered me mute as a portrait.
Beauty’s pelerine flows behind
my shoulder,
and the gift of slender hands
unties the bow,
to get to the realness of me.

I once made a mop from my hair.
Now it has grown back,
glossy but hollow.

In my nutrient dense curves
(where does a curve belong?
everywhere wrapped like
legs around a lover)
she licks lightly.

Mathematics and Art

Moving faster than math,

I ride the train to the city.

 

Lines, gradations, numbers.

 

So many nice colors,

Cool chaos,

The air slick with liquid nitrogen.

 

An ornament,

My education dangles

from the tree in city center.

In the reservoir,

My distilled ambition eddying.

Through the equation of church bells,

A garland of neon loss.

 

Which sun is silent, low?

The near one that blinds

Or the farther that fries?

 

In a clear city,

rumors

give you an inert art.