Tag: Prose poem

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.

What More Does Destiny Desire?

The white west wind knows me like a sister. I am a debutante among daffodils. I am an undulating plane of pretty, pastoral landscapes of Navy lakes and hereditary hillocks. Incensed by intergalactic incense, I find matter droll. The west wind wiles away the day with a crochet hook and a lighter. Opportunity doesn’t knock. It bites you in the back with fangs like a spider until you grab it and look into its avid eyes. My lakes have primordial women swimming in them. My hillocks are illicit and vast. What more does Destiny desire?

Alkaline Angels

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.

Hot Pink Ghosts

Pearlescent peeves poke me incessantly, chanting my name in a lint accent. The hot pink ghosts of my flamboyant girlhood eat Lucky Charms on the veranda of eternal summer, and all I can do is count mosquitoes. Gratitude is plush and warm and siddles up to me. My own body, trilingual in curve, pain, and generosity, presses in closer. I must come to understand the onyx vortex inside me to decipher the great cobalt void around me.

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.

Blue Stars and Vanilla Numbers

Stars in shades of navy, denim, cobalt, and pool circle my broken halo. My halo is made of an olive branch. In the almond flavored yellow light of disposable memories, my mother bakes pies for canaries. The coal mine in my heart has been unsealed, and the cutest bats fly out in an onyx symphony of mammalian, primal joy. The canaries sing alleluia in shifts. My halo sprouts thorns that grow into me, piercing my mulberry shaded thoughts with a steady stream of diagnosis for the recalcitrant weather. Soon my maker will sew me into the space time continuum with its vanilla integers in prim rows like headstones.

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.

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.