Time curves like a voluptuous, sumptuous woman. Around the bend of her hip, cave men paint my dreams on the walls of a cave that will cave in. My dreams, undiscovered by excitable paleo scientists, will lie dormant and mate with moss for years. My name is written in moss on the cliffside of my disagreeable mind. My moss minions mine my Mondays more and more for maturity. They find none. Just a crumbling psyche bent low over her blue screened mind machine, screaming –
Tag: poem
The Carabiner
My vows stand before me, full spectral specters with gray eyes, wondering at my frailty. Without God, I can’t climb this hill. He sips coffee and unbinds ropes. If only my hands were not greased with ambition. Ambition is always a little greasy and dirty if not coupled with saintliness, and blended like rum and coke. I wanted to be the best and forgot to ask why or at what or even how. The Carabiner roughens the rope to give me grip. My vow to love pulsates pure pink and asks, “What happens to me if you can’t do this?” “I can’t do it on my own, but He promises to wrap my wrists and raise me up on the Last Day.”
Ghosts
My ghosts are highlighted punk pink, yikes yellow, and billowy blue for rapid categorization. Miraculous myriad of ghosts follow me daily, even to the Realism market by the river to purchase my intravenous memories. The Dewey Decimal system was my first and most honest friend, and even he can’t contain the multitude of subjects hidden in the dimension I lick like a keypad to open my front door when I stumble home from the market, my name eviscerated by pain. Sobbing, one ghost asks to fog a glass one last time with her breath. I hold up my frightened mirror, loan the yellow ghost my warmth, and feel a lightbeam length of life force leave me like a lacy lexicon.
To Walk to the Edge
In the surround sound cult of Tuesday, be a heretic. The jellyfish judge me, their electric colors reproachfully pulsing, dreaming in a sea that offers to claim me when I can no longer haul my own blood back from the shore to the home that drinks it. Cover me in stamps. Discover me under black light grinding against amoebas. You aren’t sending me anywhere. Currents take me. Currents spell my name in blue.
Pain
Time acquired dilapidated properties at the edge of my publicized lake in the inner folds of my mind. This life is a performance for the entertainment of angels who do not laugh. Their weeping kisses the lilypads with dew. Frogs sing and philosophize. Time vacations here to taunt my memories and fragile wishes. Life must be grasped by the sharp end and plunged into matter like glass shards to harvest a wine so bittersweet with lilac pain that I can’t bear the rustic smell of music.
Beaming into The Future
I am a white daisy beaming into the future. Roses gather at the hem of my life, baby’s breath at the cross stitched hymns. God, please pick me among the petunias in their pageantry best. My visions have tea together. My secrets tell me nothing. But somewhere on the edges of my name, a scythe scratches the notes to a new psalm in petaled flesh.
Despair
I wander into night like a stain into a wedding dress, not seeing the disaster I am for the black velvet around me. Hairy voices of monsters dissecting my name echo against the fur lined dark. Escapism is a red and blue striped slide from the playground of my private wallowing well down to the depths of whatever a red light district calls despair. I walk the greedy streets in stilettos, my footsteps Morse code for sadness along the listless lane.
Stars Like Tattoos
Your parsimonious attitude neglects the vitality of the sunset sky bleeding all over us, the petrichor scented rainbow above leaking down on us, an infectious fluid of madness. The flag of the granite country that bore me waves in the breeze as it unfurls, rubbing stars like tattoos on the blueing sky.
Cheese, Salt, Audacity
The ghosts of sunset are tubular and fantastical. The last lingering color on the backporch of my vaporized brain is defrauded pink. Teal waves of entropy ride over me like the 4 horsemen of a very soothing apocalypse. In my letter to you, I described my life as “cheese, well grated.” I described my personality as “salted.” And you wrote back laughter and guesstimates on the waiting time in God’s pharmacy. Harvest hums, gaining ground on us. The sickle is at my back, my mind far away salting fields of lavender. Cut me low. Cut me clean. I can not bear the aggravating taste of my own audacity anymore.
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.
