Tag: poem

Holographic Sea

My voice is like butter – high in fat, churned like a holographic sea, the fish glitching out in technicolor. The red ribbon that wraps around my waist was given to me for this journey. Howling, my ego holding her elbow after smacking it on reality. Reality has fish eyes. I will sail across an ocean for my love and give him sugar and sea.

Smellevision

I sniff my smellevision 4 days in the future, and God embroiders my backbone for me. The future is all geometry and piss poor planning. My cotton hands are soaked with sunsweat. The leaves of grass drip with it. I know I have to survive tetris as a sphere and it won’t be easy. Two demons play jenga in my front yard, and no matter how they play, I lose.

Failure to Grow

Clandestine stars twinkle guiltily. Here even light feels accused. In my old house, a ghost reading Kant. God is in my garden lamenting the lack of roses. Spiteful space radiates cold. I carry a 50 pound sack of flowers everywhere I go as punishment for failure to grow. A ballerina dances to the sweet music of the moon that only she can hear. Black velvet night cradles our secrets to sleep.

The Chasm

What lies between the roiling world and the cool white light of heaven but the chasm in my gray heart? Sunshine knocked on my door once. I bit him. I trudge across a wounded woods twice daily hauling water for the perturbed ghosts that bathe in my yard. Nothing is ever enough. Somewhere is a heart shaped key with my name emblazoned in gold, and an idiot is shoving it into the wrong lock until it breaks. Heaven is like a squirrel feeding me nuts on the porch. It’s amazing but I’m probably dreaming. My soul struggles for resuscitation, and my man puts his lips on my broken person and breathes.

Deep, Unrelenting Fear

Dayglow fangs of daylight rake my face. This is a burgundy place of waiting. Of why. Of the soon to happen. My punishment for helping Sisyphus is to continually scrub my name off my skin with a wire wedge of anger. Rage is a black ocean inviting gray wars and porcelain ghosts. A rogue wave somewhere drags my doppelganger under, and I freeze under the weight of an invisible, dark shore. Sisyphus has his rock, I the deep, unrelenting fear of the sea.

The Sisterhood

Oval orchestras illuminate my mind with their music. In the high notes, short shadows of fear and doubt and my biggest regrets. In the low notes, my sorrow paints Ave Maria with interpretive dance. Action painting is fun but requires no talent. There. I said it. Now a raven will peck my pupils out with pure, putrid spite. Women are never allowed to step out of line. Ever. And it’s not the men that are holding us stagnant. In my honeyed mind, a hive of sisterhood not many of even the sharpest sisters can break free of. How can a woman be liberated without the approval of women? Intellectualism offers me a beer that tastes like piss and dissertations, and I gag. Get this flagrant minutiae out of here. I want God sized truth, to dance my way away from this lunging sisterhood of desperate bees. Bees that attack. Bees that die while they wound you. Bees that dance their way to a manna of social acceptance I can only dream of. It is the year the valleys will glow in the dark. What do we do now?




I Was a Marshmallow

Sincere silence is honest with me, unlike the electricity that wiped my inner hard drive partially clean and diluted my mind. The futile nature of remembering my life smells like a campfire dying in a cold rain. I miss 1999. Not anything about my life in particular that year. Just the world before society lost its collective mind.  In the beginning, I came home and slept from the anesthesia. In the evenings, I was a marshmallow. But then I was hollow, unaware of anything but a voice saying “What would you give to raise a child in a world that no longer exists?” Glacial mistiming of fertility and luck. The world ends in an orgy of rage, and we all drown in the torrents of tears. I cannot build my daughter a raft. I sink.

Soft Shapes

Rollerskating on the moon has been my ambition since I died. It was a sunny day and no one heard the Aspen trees whispering, their taffeta leaves rustling in a language that predates man by millions of years. The lake watches me. The clouds, ever jealous of the soft shape I fill empty space with, watch jealously. In a paddle boat, ghosts of birthdays past and future argue with one another. 

The Language of the Damned

My visual language is a spicy hellion. Flowering trees mean, “release me from the nuthouse.” If the buds are pink, I’m being badly psychoanalyzed by a therapist who I’m sure is a walrus inside. Clouds mean luxury. My body is undefined and unquestioning. Yielding to pressure. Sumptuous and yet plain and smelling of petrichor. Images are ideas incarnate. Poetry is a snapshot of my mind’s eye as it roams the dying earth, sprinkling water on the tulips as I pass from field to field. I want to farm flowers, syllabi, and the blue of the blessed mother’s veil. What a business woman I would be – not dressed up and with too many places to go. Why not have a monsoon at my expense? Dance in the incandescent rain. The damned watch from below, their bodies shimmering in a heat too intense for comprehension.