Wild sentence chase down Sincerity, beat him with feathers and tar him with honey. What happens when the truth gets overpopulated? Are you true? I’m true to you.
Tag: poetry
Victim
Heavy happenings stain me like ink. When the clouds tease me, they rain just enough to mist my hair. I can never quench my thirst or rinse the shine from my skin. The world is a foil sparkling in my kitchen. Darkness darkness everywhere and not a drop to drink. The crashes out on the train tracks are daily now. I am a victim not yet assigned a death.
Queen Midas
Tangy recollections of pterodactyls in the yard feast on my maladapted days. A cult of glitter waits to coat my dinner. I am Queen Midas. Predators prowl the shores of my body. Body evanescent. Body effervescent. Evolution wears a red sequin dress, her leathery legs exposed, and her petrified breasts heaving in opalescent colors.
Salvation…a Vision
Christmas is a plot line in a novel I sew with the soft pink silk of my lungs. How God, as vanilla voiced as He is, could write a letter of love to a spider with a breathing addiction is beyond me. But I’m grateful. I wear my garnets to the foyer of Bliss and reconfigure my name. When the lightning bug veers too close to me, I cut him free, and I bleed.
Oh Yellow!
The grass is so unfair, blemishing the earth with shades of antipsychotic and anesthetic green. I long instead for flowers. Flowers mailing a parcel at the post office. Flowers mending my broken spirit. Flowers mining the sun for smiles. Purple flowers purr fancifully. Pink flowers harvest at the vineyard. And yellow flowers! Oh yellow! Toying with my tresses and my head, leading me down alleys of lust.
3 Visions of God
God is a painter.
Fuchsia climbs teal until a cool zenith is reached.
God is a poet.
The words He sows in the crevices
Of my mind bear fruit a glorious shade
Of red violet.
God is a mathematician.
How 1 can be >1,000,000
And how leaving 99 to go after one multiplies blessings.
Light’s Hostess
With stinging precision, the words running riot (wearing their little purple pelerines) ran me through with sharpened criticism. I have been lax with the water lately and with cream. Festooned angels wait for my better judgment to kick in like a geriatric song on a scratchy record player. I have neglected my responsibilities as Light’s hostess. Mahogany fog fills me in with an inauspicious and anticlimactic anticipation.
Growth
Soft static reaches her fronds toward an insatiable earth. Growth is a capricious master. I lick the salt from the rim. I lick the luck. Ferocious, fecund februaries try desperately to mate with the various Mays and Junes in my autobiography. My book of life written in rose for an audience no one knows. Snow can not long fellowship with sun and her recalcitrant rays. On the farm in my mother’s diary, sheep raising men.
Cavorting in Dentists’ Offices
The simple, timeless horrors of self awareness and awareness of others remind me to dress in my dreams. All the nude cavorting in dentists offices is uncalled for. Spiritually, I am 3 feet tall. In the pines of Georgia, sobriety coveting a sandwich eaten by a girl with an old name. Falsify your eyes and leak past the guards of this temple of industry and consumption. What velveteen briars invest in the salted soil of your skin?
My Blue Heart
Daylight drains sanguine in tubes like a corpse’s emissions at the morgue. I will not be so easy for him to break, I say as I gnaw on my bespoke hands. Above the stairwell of my blue heart, a portrait of Dorian Gray, aging like archeology.
Miniature Moon 