Alkaline angels freshen the twilight with blue, twitching light. There is an impatience in me blooming like a black dahlia and laced with oleander. The light here is alive and learns everyone’s name but mine. My shadow runs ahead of me. I limp and stumble trying to keep pace with that dirge-singing child of obfuscation. Everything here is primed to bloom, but in my spine, the root of an oval organism miming its way into my esoteric being.
Tag: poet
The Small Packet of Miraculous Insight
Could you hand me the small packet of miraculous insight laying down by the invertebrate river, meandering as it does through the mind, curving and cutting the manly wild of flower soaked land? My father buried an axe here. My mother, a key. In the cool dawn of my effervescent identity, a strange blue wailing I only recognize later as my name. Hungry, the moon descends to feast on the horrified dark. The sun illuminates you and me now, honest as soap stripping away filth. Hand me the packet. I am going to see the color of angels.
Snarls Through Snaggled Teeth
In the crinkling dawn, death yawns. Another day, another disembodied body. I tell him to get off my back porch, and I chase him with my own scythe painted dayglo orange. He’s been drinking and smoking joints on my patio all night. Angels sew the fields with tempestuous flowers, hauling bright colors and soft textures with them like a holy burden. I hear one mutter, “I will dance on his grave.” But death puts his joint out on my face and snarls through snaggled teeth, “I’ll be back.”
In the Wilderness of my Ambitions
In the gold, twilight wilderness of my ambitions, aspen trees grow. Birch trees grow. Black eyes beaming out of flaking white casing, leaves as yellow as orgasms. The hills are humongous and roll up and down with my psyche. By the burlesque pond, my skin shining in the sun from beneath my judgmental shroud. The shore is fundamentally erotic. An electrical storm in my kitchen cooks lasagna and lights my breath up with pink flame. In my eyes, the reflection of an overtaxed, underrepresented ghost. I will climb trees and wait for my inner child to float back to me.
Broken Teeth and U Shaped Smiles
On the underside of a horror story, my ghosts crawl along the walls to the dayglo exit. Reality is a bitter elixir that suits their broken teeth and U shaped smiles. Math drinks absinthe in the corner, telling stories of the world’s end. The universe will end not in a bang, but in a whisper. One soft plea for togetherness after the stars have pulled themselves into dank regions of brutal isolation. My ghosts are ride or die. I will ride with them or they’ll stitch my name in nightfall and feed me to the remnants of demonic empires.
Love Lives
In the glowing dawn, Morning with her citrus aura sips mimosas and beckons me to come, drink, discuss my love life. I am the ballerina of a song. The butterfly of a flower. The lock for his key. Morning tells me of her long distance boyfriend, Evening. They will never meet, but write epistles of fire under starlight pearlescent and plump.
The Tongue
Malicious, sloppy rumors roll over the undulating landscape of public opinion. The topographic map of regret is filled with many bulls eyes. My name was hauled out of mud and dropped into ash. My ambitions computate the beauty of a last sunrise before the sun begins to follow me everywhere, the light burrowing into my dreams. I used to hide from monsters in the dark. Now I follow them in bondage under the reign of the infectious light. The human tongue is a wrecking ball with spikes.
Osteoarthritic Mind
Nutritious music feeds my osteoarthritic mind. In my closet, glowing bones white hot with the fury of ideas discarded. In a pond in the wilderness of memory, a monster patrols. My face is a floodplain. Many drown in the gravity of my sunken eyes and the whirlpool of my ceramic breath.
A Jellyfish at Heart
I am a jellyfish at heart, soft and pink and dangerous. As I drift through the miasma of life, most of the blue toothed predators don’t think I’m worth eating. What a blessing to be so inconsequential. The blueness everywhere haunts me like a sister dead set on revenge. In the reefs, fish float upside down in the flotsam, not dead, but only gymnasts frozen in time.
A Library Card as a Weapon
The bankers prowl the shores of decrepit democracy seeking pigtailed children to devour. I have been a little girl for 37 years, chasing a shade of blue so perfect I know I will feel immaculate ecstasy when I find it. Roaming over the dessicated remains of the free world, I wear a cloak of love poems and carry a library card as a weapon. The bankers are closing in on all of us, teeth sharpened to a point more piercing than truth. There is nowhere to run. Now I must learn to see without eyes, sew my future without hands, and sing hymns to my God of spilled wine.
Miniature Moon 