Tag: micropoetry

This is What I Couldn’t Explain to the Aliens

Beneath a gun metal sky of trauma, which grows like a vine throughout all Creation, I play chicken with Death parked in my bathroom cabinet. Will I turn away, or will I succumb? The answer lies in the valleys of existence. This is what I could not explain to the aliens. We must die to ourselves without dying in ourselves, and our growth causes us to constantly shed crude, crunchy casings of our old selves.

Pureed Future Tense

Ceramic cerulean blood scrapes through the veins of the aging skin of my face. My expression could strip the veneer off the 21st century. My breath is vaporized blood glistening like rubies. The violins playing in the cemetery smell like rotten verbs and pureed future tense. I pretend I am not a tangerine. No one believes me. In the violet, violent hallways of death, my silhouette bearing another like a casket.

Growth

Soft static reaches her fronds toward an insatiable earth. Growth is a capricious master. I lick the salt from the rim. I lick the luck. Ferocious, fecund februaries try desperately to mate with the various Mays and Junes in my autobiography. My book of life written in rose for an audience no one knows. Snow can not long fellowship with sun and her recalcitrant rays. On the farm in my mother’s diary, sheep raising men.