Tag: poet

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.

Modernism and Post Modernism

I make love to Modernism in the back of a black cat museum. Then I dump him and deflower post modernism, which is a whore in rayon. After that the clouds follow me back and forth from home to the store. My clonopin can breathe on its own and has 20/20 vision I can only envy. I am sick to death of navel gazing and semi autonomous whispers. What comes after contemporary art? Is it fudge or shit? We put visionaries eyes out and toast to the promising future of the ambitious dark.

The Claire’s to Victoria’s Secret Pipeline

Tart tulle. A world of black and pink. Girlhood is a vivid hot pink stain in the local psyche of ravens. A lipsticked maven sells beauty to the hungry future ghosts of beauty. They sell you your youth while you’re young and have it anyway. They sell you beauty when you’re gorgeous already. The stars shine like the bright eyes of my younger self before I shook off extraneous need for approval. The Claire’s to Victoria’s Secret Pipeline is the first real graduation a woman has (after she gets her life giving flow). The travel from the land of glitter to the land of fishnets is brutally short.  The ghost of a blighted field is scintillating and sinister in the lacy snow. After graduation, I lived according to the laws and regulations of my new hyper sex bunny land, but I loathed it because I felt like a rock where I used to be a diamond. At the core of the softness of woman is always the sparkling of gems. So I came to the valley between my mountainous breasts, and my heart erupted into a quiet, silk thing. No longer a fetish of myself but a real woman of flesh and gentleness. Snow fills my bones, my memories. Soft, pristine, clean.

An Exam Most Will Fail

Addled light beams curve around me as though I were winding like a mountain road and made of glass. Wherever I am, I am not. What is it to be in a place? I miss the homey vernacular of my youth. Customs coat us in sticky colors that ultimately create us. Row your boat gently down the stream. But life is not a dream. It is an exam most will fail. I get seasick. My legs are stems, and I am an amalgamation of flowers clamoring over one another to be heard before dark rolls in like a crime scene cleanup crew, removing my essence.

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.

The Nuthouse

Windows to concrete. Ghosts of sanity smoking together as though huddling against the world. Maneating sedatives prowl the corridors looking for victims. You will not shut off my personality. You will not condemn my name as unfit. The hunted can hunt. My 9 year old self watches, anxious and disappointed. I peer around the corner, braless and determined. I’m going to dance like a ballerina to any tune they play because I have to get out of here. My soft soul can’t survive it.

Prairie Like Tinfoil

Jilted raindrops storm off from the clouds. The prairie wrinkles and crumples like tin foil – and it’s just as shiny. Angels play Uno under a lone tree, who helps one of them cheat. I walk toward them but will never reach them. The prairie has other plans, as does the dragonfly shimmering beside me. I’m pretty sure he’s just Death singing a lullaby only I can hear. My soaked slip sticks to me like the music of my husband’s deft fingers. Lingering in the cool air, half evaporated ghosts of truths long lost.

Only Jesus and I See It

The flavor of his chocolate pie is deafening. Today is marbled, a muse of comfort. Or maybe elegance. I’d like to say comfort and elegance can “coexist” like it says on those stupid bumper stickers, but for me they seldom can. Around the table, saints with no stigmata. But the barbs in my brain break free frequently, and deep in my husband’s psyche, a wound tears softly, as though my husband’s essence were perforated. His halo is turquoise and silver and shines like the sun. Only Jesus and I see it.