I read my bones for answers to all my problems with my x ray eyes. In the hollow tree of winter, a raccoon and a plague of rose scented blood. Winter burrows into my name. Snow fills the chambers of my personality. Suddenly when I speak, hail pops out. My x ray eyes and cold hands pry the truth from the fingers of my enemies, who run a ghost factory in my yard. They are hiring – for ghosts. My eyes are glass anyways. Why not apply? I have lots of experience with zero.
Tag: Prose poem
Eschatological Mess
Lightning embroiders excitement in the bruised sky. Clouds call my name in a whisper that smells like adventure. I have become one with my back porch. Not the one my father once painted red. The one coated in stardust and crass lemonade. My home is built from my rib and will submit to my will. Home is a flower with benzos in the petals, my tiredness a river of parasitic glass carving obscenities down a mountain. I long to make this eschatological mess into a nest for babies and birds, but my frazzled mind licks sunshine for the sour buzz.
Sex Red Phone
A sex red phone rings off the hook. My lipsticks paint a mural of youth on my face, while my Vitality goes out and lights the faces of younger women. It is true that I’m a candle, but I am also a c sharp note, highest octave. I am living in the light laced shadow of the triumvirate because I am too dappled with darkness to live in the likeness of goodness. The triumvirate of pain, peonies, poison. The mind is a cigarette machine. The phone is still ringing. Myself, age 22 on the end of the line, wanting to know if it all turns out okay.
Blood in the Water
At a plastic desk from a discount store, I pen my memoirs in lipstick with a raven who taught me everything I know about distrust and linoleum. The standard issue daylight won’t do anymore. I saw a shard of paradise, exuding every color, and now the manila boss of my waking hours can’t contain me. If I write anything less true than a martyr’s blood, the raven pecks my hands. If I don’t sweep soon, the dust will riot and burn, but the raven reviews my writing for salt or fish, and the hostile country of my face conceals no faults. In the variegated landscape of my mind’s private vineyard, thunder in the wine press and blood in the water.
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.
Miniature Moon 