Tag: Prose poem

Screaming

Time curves like a voluptuous, sumptuous woman. Around the bend of her hip, cave men paint my dreams on the walls of a cave that will cave in. My dreams, undiscovered by excitable paleo scientists, will lie dormant and mate with moss for years. My name is written in moss on the cliffside of my disagreeable mind. My moss minions mine my Mondays more and more for maturity. They find none. Just a crumbling psyche bent low over her blue screened mind machine, screaming –

The Carabiner

My vows stand before me, full spectral specters with gray eyes, wondering at my frailty. Without God, I can’t climb this hill. He sips coffee and unbinds ropes. If only my hands were not greased with ambition. Ambition is always a little greasy and dirty if not coupled with saintliness, and blended like rum and coke. I wanted to be the best and forgot to ask why or at what or even how. The Carabiner roughens the rope to give me grip. My vow to love pulsates pure pink and asks, “What happens to me if you can’t do this?” “I can’t do it on my own, but He promises to wrap my wrists and raise me up on the Last Day.”

Ghosts

My ghosts are highlighted punk pink, yikes yellow, and billowy blue for rapid categorization. Miraculous myriad of ghosts follow me daily, even to the Realism market by the river to purchase my intravenous memories. The Dewey Decimal system was my first and most honest friend, and even he can’t contain the multitude of subjects hidden in the dimension I lick like a keypad to open my front door when I stumble home from the market, my name eviscerated by pain. Sobbing, one ghost asks to fog a glass one last time with her breath. I hold up my frightened mirror, loan the yellow ghost my warmth, and feel a lightbeam length of life force leave me like a lacy lexicon.

Good Fridays

Fantastic, frothy Fridays foam up at the edges of my life. I’m out for coffee with the Antagonist, and I hate coffee. I crave cold, curious Saturdays of discovery. I like to wander around the English language after dark and get mugged. An elegy broke my nose once. At dawn, the weekend will taste like candy. Sugar is true and lethal. I didn’t choose the thorn burrowing into my side, but I will die beside it.


To Walk to the Edge

In the surround sound cult of Tuesday, be a heretic. The jellyfish judge me, their electric colors reproachfully pulsing, dreaming in a sea that offers to claim me when I can no longer haul my own blood back from the shore to the home that drinks it. Cover me in stamps. Discover me under black light grinding against amoebas. You aren’t sending me anywhere. Currents take me. Currents spell my name in blue.

Cheese, Salt, Audacity

The ghosts of sunset are tubular and fantastical. The last lingering color on the backporch of my vaporized brain is defrauded pink. Teal waves of entropy ride over me like the 4 horsemen of a very soothing apocalypse. In my letter to you, I described my life as “cheese, well grated.” I described my personality as “salted.” And you wrote back laughter and guesstimates on the waiting time in God’s pharmacy. Harvest hums, gaining ground on us. The sickle is at my back, my mind far away salting fields of lavender. Cut me low. Cut me clean. I can not bear the aggravating taste of my own audacity anymore.

My Seafaring Love

Elizabethan frost coats my cold coated dreams. My husband’s name means rocky place, but it also means steadfast. He’s steadfast in rocky places like the craggy shores of my thalassophobic mind. Mosasaurs prowl the coast of my psyche, hunting stray thoughts as they sail desperately to the blue safety of open synaptic water. My husband is a man of the sea, the tentacles of his love entering my royal chambers like an octopus. He enchants me with his intelligence, his ability to open jars. The sea breeze he carries with him that tousles his hair when we sit in the doldrums of life, currents snubbing us as we drink ink on the beach.

Misery

Misery has a halting melody, a rubbery and filthy chord clamoring like chlamydia through throngs of joylessness. I’ve brought my blue sequin shoes to dance, and truly the coagulated chorus matches my hot and discombobulated body perfectly, but I feel self-conscious as my nipples perk up in the tearful rain. Across a bridge of bone, holographic islands dreaming in opalescent bays. I want to travel somewhere original and thrilling, but I find myself lost like the balloon I had for a moment as a child, pink, precious, poppable.

Obliterated Tuesdays

Obliterated Tuesdays jackhammer the week. What slovenly hills must I climb to catharsis today? The weeks mail themselves to my lover, and he sews them in his coat. He’s freezing, I’m burning. My bikini is tight. My job is to shovel wishes off the beaches of my mind and into the wallets of my enemies. Love grows along the fences in this town like ivy, tearing it down in elegant slow motion. My week dines on dinosaurs and government evasion. Armies convene in my blood to fight the hordes of daily tasks. Wednesday waits around the corner, sucking on candy cigarettes and wearing a black leather jacket emblazoned with the word, “Hope.”