Checkered chance chews checkbooks.
Why browse for blood in a
sepulchre of bone?
I snoozed sullen
through lush yellow years,
and awoke to find a battery
operated possibility charging itself
from the mainframe of my
straying face.
Moisture requires maintenance.
The remains of a multitude
choosing at last to rest,
though dead from inception –
Tag: poetry
Marriage
My silence is a blue tapestry
hanging by the old runny window.
Beneath my tongue the dream
dissolves, disheveled, voiceless.
Where his feet go,
my soul follows,
swimming through the cerulean sea,
stalking through the scorching sands,
clattering through canals.
His feet make tracks on the moon,
his ambition a horse for me to ride
to some frosted paradise.
In my tapestry,
the design of a snowflake,
sublime and thick.
What is Gone….What is Left
radio static stands rigid in my room
the exorcist has been suffocated
by the weight of westward wanting
no one comes for the skull of
fresh stone
beyond my neighbor’s upright fence,
my grave guarded by bluejays
what I hear is sand and sea
in séance with salt,
who has disappeared behind a
shredded shrine
Weightless
My Mondays are cocooned,
my years a chrysalis from which
only my age emerges.
Safe in my silverlit silk, I am
an unsung liquor,
and unbefriended possibility.
Failure cannot gnaw my alabaster soul.
In my serene rooms,
I float weightless,
worry bought and sold by someone else.
I Need a Kindred Soul
I need a friend. I have friends, a few at least. And I love them. But what I wish I had was one more friend, a friend who likes phone photography or writing poetry or taking still lifes or journaling or painting or collage. A friend I can do creative challenges with, or even start a separate blog with to post collaborative work or stuff that follows the same sort of theme or concept.
I think that working with someone and bouncing ideas off each other would make my creativity stronger. I would certainly love the companionship and having someone to talk to about creativity, either written or visual. It would be fun if we were doing the same thing, but it would be equally great if we were doing two different creative things and just talking about them with each other, and giving each other suggestions and keeping each other posted with our progress.
I feel like I run on and on about poetry and other artsy things to friends that aren’t interested in them. And no one wants to be the person in the room who talks for an hour about something no one else in the room is interested in! But it’s hard when almost no one is interested in something that you really love.
So many creatives throughout history have been shaped by other creatives that they were friends with. I would love to have someone like that in my life and I would love to be that someone for another person.
I am not an amazing artist or photographer, but I really like designing images. I wish there was someone I could talk about it with. Maybe we could inspire and challenge each other. Perhaps we could give each other ideas outside of one another’s usual subject matter or mode of creating in order to sharpen one another’s senses. Why not try mixed media? Or instant film and toy cameras? Or ekphrastic poetry based on one another’s photographs? Book binding? Incorporating ephemera into our art?
Blogging helps me work some of my Creative Energy out. Blogging is extremely important to me. But maybe through my blog I will make a serendipitous discovery of a kindred soul who might want to be an angel in my life and let me be an angel in theirs.
This is probably a long shot, but maybe someday somebody will find this post and a beautiful friendship will spark. I know it’s unlikely, but it’s always worth a try. If nothing comes of it, my life will continue in much the same way and I will not have lost anything. And I have a good life. But if I do find that kindred soul, how happy I will be! If I don’t open my doors no one will know that they are welcomed into my life.
Iron sharpens iron, and friends are priceless. Is anyone out there? Hello….Hello……
Untitled 89
Pour wine.
Turn on.
My bar is full of acids,
scrambled house.
Chronic medicine comes from it.
Tear out my tears
Make unhealthy promises.
Woman
On the bridge of her lips I consider crossing –
my hips a sailboat with no sails.
Behind me, daisies.
Beneath me, silk drenched with dream.
In the sweet musk of human frailty
I rollick like a ship to sea
when she gazes at me,
knife to meat,
erosion to beach.
Destruction never was so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched,
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.
Daylight Dancer
In my plush, pink experience,
roses are more exquisite
dancers than I,
and it takes courage like a billboard
to be a daylight dancer.
The stones are brutal past
under blackened pressure.
Diamonds are never what they seem,
strings of ghosts like lights
around my neck.
What I write in white with
my digital digits –
a secret between my sin and the wind.
Man and Mice
A pointillist point pontificates
on how many men it takes to paint
a portrait of dramatic, carcinogenic war.
In my closet,
a gun,
in my mind,
strange acts of sex and survival.
Distinguishable by rudimentary colors,
indistinguishable by sedimentary feuds.
In my Freudian slip I attract fireflies,
corpulent river deltas,
expunged scales of seething grain.
Behind the house a man grows mice
to furnish pale places with plague.
He will slide home when the death
evaporates like hail in heat,
find himself in my wet caverns.
From Beginning to End
The days of man
exceed my breath.
In the major blood surgery,
The restoration of hunger.
Something waits by the garden.
Miniature Moon 