The dreams in the deepest crevices of my electrified mind have evolved fangs. I have no equation through which to escape from my regret. Regret shadows my shadow, planning to fill in while she sleeps.
Tag: poet
Like Sound into Silence
With holy, incalculable math, the snow falls to the dying earth like sound into silence. The world waits. I wait in my wedding dress washed in blood. Celestial somberness reminds me of how minute I am. The stars beleaguer me with questions I can’t answer. I lay my heart in His hands.
Trash Collector
A mother’s fear – a sharp, wrinkled, black thing – shimmies and shimmers across the planes on the wind. My job is to collect the trash blowing across the mortal plane and refine it in fire. I take my grabber and carefully clutch her fear and jam it down into my designer trash bag. The epoch of sour cherry dreams is over. The hills have rolled away from us. Christ floats over the horizon, beckoning gently. I wonder whether the fire will refine her fear until it is fierce and returns to destroy her, or if it will refuse to burn.
The Inside of My Tears
Seeing through a window darkly, I observe a cloud killing his coolness and I say nothing. The last time I dropped a mirror I saw my essence in a myriad of fragments, and I wept. Cover the house in shrouds. I cannot narrate my life to this typist in a clown suit while seeing inside my tears.
Specially Designed Paper Airplanes For Bats
The fountain of fire flows through my hemispheres of storms and femininity. The light shining from my eyes has one brightness setting – supernova – and even the air sizzles with the static flowing from my bountiful word garden on the back porch. On the walls of this acorn, paintings of death doing gymnastics. My portfolio includes specially designed paper airplanes for bats, graphic misrepresentation of the intent of those clouds over there, and some semiannual irresponsibility.
Necrosis and Neurosis
All afternoon the heat races through my circulatory system like a typhoon. My life is ebbing away. On an unremarkable beach, an unremembered explorer. The sun hovers like a smothering mother. My skin slobbers. What wild daylight must be captured and cooled for my necrosis and neurosis to heal?
Life after Electroshock
White, wilted, silty, and salty, forgetfulness washes over me like sand carried by the tide. In my head the whirring of a scarred conscience. In my eyes, festering wounds of imperfection. I have electrocuted myself 15 times and died each time. The body may die once, but identity dies little by little as memory fades. Still, my sweeter half carries me onto the nefarious beach. He opens his mouth and pours purpose into me.
New Life
The languid, languishing ghost of ice ages past relinquishes her grip on the mountains, and I am terrified of what comes out to play when snow goes away. Children ask profound questions. What color is disappointment? (Beige, child) Children ask stupid questions. Why am I here? I suppose it’s not the question itself that’s stupid, but rather who you ask it to. I’m here because Valentine’s Day was just around the corner and my parents were too broke to go shopping. You might be here because an angel sneezed. All I know is the cold is opening like a grand doorway, and bursting forth is an alien life that shimmers green and pink in the haze of inexperienced summer.
Just the Right Universe
You are an old oak tree – I am but a swing designing patterns in the breeze from your strongest branch. The forest is alive with the yellow agreement of ants and the soft green buzz of bees. The sky wears blue like a badge of honor, but I saw it go to bed with a slatternly purple last night. Our child rocks on me. You support our weight. In another life you were a river, I a fishing pole languishing on an old man’s porch.
Theocracy of Granite
When the pain of my sinner’s shell is sufficient, I will shed it in a desert of my own making and grow a holy cathedral over my delicate glass body with the worn out, crimson heart. Sin scours the sands looking for beasts of burden to shackle. In the bottle of a glass of Holy Water, the egg of a dove kept perfectly warm. I was born to a theocracy of granite in a land as old as rebellion. There I will return to lay my crystal foundation.
Miniature Moon 