The eccentric novella brewing and screwing her way through the sizzling synapses across my brain is hard to catch. Pick up your plot and follow me! The sun over my house judges my unproductive, polychromatic day. Language was my first love. I try to harness my words as they sparkle defiantly, trying to escape the little woman controlling my tongue, who snatches them up and places them on it to be conveyed. The novella, being an angry, unwilling confederation of words, tries to escape. She puts up a fight. She’s feisty. Still, the woman in my voice box, the one I abuse, dictates her from plot to syntax into the phone. Afterward, I answer the phone and hear the rush of my own blood, a private sea. And somewhere, the eternal hammering of nails.
Tag: poetry
The Circle and The Sphere
The little circle marbles down the glass streets of my imaginary universe. She is purple and mystical scented and smooth and spoiled. The squares till the fields, picking despair off crops that will be burned by an army of disenfranchised futures. The triangles, red in their harshness and love of good wine, stand on the porches of their crystalline cottages, watching our little circle travel. Until she meets a sphere, and she blooms with possibility.
My Old Personality
Feral, calendar scented clouds claw their way across a luxury ultramarine sky. Twilight – and the storms are tucking in for the night – typhoons sleeping off shore, waiting to pounce during union working hours. I sit on the porch smoking memories of multidisciplinary Mondays where every day was a synthesis of time and color. I am not on speaking terms with line, but texture knows my home phone number. The used Mondays are aromatic like my old personality, years before my diseased mind wiped my name off my birth certificate. What is the most effective way to move a mountain through my veins?
My Heart
Rushing rivers of reverse psychology spill from pharmaceutical sources. I used to be a gummy bear. Now I’m just juicy. I have to believe that Language, digging the shallow grave in my yard, doesn’t mean it for me, but he constantly sneaks up behind me with measuring tape. My hollow chest contains a snow owl for a heart, digesting always a scurrying sin that squeaks on the way down his gullet.
Snow Owl for a Heart
Rushing rivers of reverse psychology spill from pharmaceutical sources. I used to be a gummy bear. Now I’m just juicy. I have to believe that Language, digging the shallow grave in my yard, doesn’t mean it for me, but he constantly sneaks up behind me with measuring tape. My hollow chest contains a snow owl for a heart, digesting always a scurrying sin that squeaks on the way down his gullet.
My Best Friend
Language is my friend. She’s as sure as fire and as piercing as ice, cutting to mankind’s marrow and then dissolving, the perfect murder weapon. I invite her often for caffeine and mayhem, and she obliges with a wink.
Friends With No Benefits
Careful correlations kiss causation in the school bathroom. My youth was an opaque thing. It always is. In my eyes, many memories are stored alphabetically by aroma. I remember pencil sharpeners and friends made of knives, sharpening themselves and cutting into me. They told me the shivs were diamonds. I didn’t believe them, but they glittered, so I bled cooperatively on a table meant for autopsies.
What Was I Made For?
I wash my hair as most wishes do, with sea spray. My alabaster legs stick out at desperate angles as I trip in the surf. I think I was made by a 22 year old for whom graphic design is their “passion.” Or perhaps a logger, running from the ancient aliens in the woods. Either way, my eyes slice the fruit of man’s labor like an orange, dividing it up among the jackals. My hands are oxygen, a dream of sublime strangulation. My name is the river flowing backward, flooding her banks. I am a wish, a need, a woman varnished and unverified.
4 am
Light struggles to arise from her slumber. The deer feed on the past. In a duck blind, a man cold with isolation. Space watches, whispers. At my window, the powdery moonlight stays for a while on my desk while I write sonnets to stars.
Lisa Elsewhere
Cylindrical sisterhood rattles down my childhood lane like a can. The wind was never my friend. My feral blood echoes its request for a sedative. The life within me is hot and knows no peace. My sister rides a unicycle, holding hands with everything we mean when we say, “I had a good time. Really.” My bones slide safely from my skin, prop up a Lisa elsewhere who chews snowflakes for their originality and drinks the blood of the Lamb.
Miniature Moon 