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.
Tag: Prose poem
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.”
Voluptuous and Treacherous
Chrome tears coalesce in the misty mountainside. I said goodbye to my 20s in the tranquil mountain air of Colorado. When home is as voluptuous and treacherous as you are, there are bound to be misunderstandings between you and your psyche. Vanilla snow falls on my languid language, wiping my adjectives clean.
Think of Me in the Depths of Your Despair
How I stood on the glittering brink holding out a branch for you to grab. How you spit in my eye. The nightingales don’t sing where you’re going. I live now in a cave full of paper mache and feral mirth. You bury your name in ash and call it a bath.
Simplicity and Serenity
Simplicity serenades Serenity. Tonight they will make love, and in the apex of desire actualized, they will say thank you and turn away to sleep. I could never be satisfied with fried fire and elastic hope. I need something to hold me, to remind me I am bad but also that I can be good. In 7 days the dead will rise. I must try to get away before then.
Soft and Hard
I am soft like sex when it’s raining outside. My musical blood plays Lacrymosa while my feet climb toward success without me. The ivy strangles the wall, and everyone driving by talks about how beautiful the wall with the ivy is, as though tendril and stone were lovers. As though a kind of abuse isn’t happening in front of us. I am soft like the fertile hillocks of Kansas. The disaster of vine and structural integrity. Gravity is a cheap hooker and a terrible pessimist, always bringing everyone down. I am soft like a memory of pajamas with feet in them. I could never pretend to be a stone wall, but still I am tenderly hunted by the tendrils, their iron wills coiled and ready to strike.
Inspiration- or Crime and Punishment
The raindrops watch me furtively, avoiding my thirsty skin as they fall. The elevator will go down and down until the dead are dancing on you. The resin ballerina at the old wrought iron gate at the precipice of punishment resonates with me. Please commute my sentence or send me to the joy mines. Elegance and Grace get drunk off old rose at my great pearl table. In the yard with the whip cream colored unicorns, lightning licks little Lisa with bolts of genius like bolts of fabric to stretch over the folds of her cerebrum. Rainbows croon in every euphoric hue.
The Future Comes to Collect
The future comes to collect minutes from my aging face. Mitosis carries out in every cell to the rhythm of Bailamos. The code corrupts like a politician. The future wears a blue gown and a crimson pelerine. Minutes vacuumed off the edge of my life now will make daisies grow in the future. I tell her to take them. My bones walked off the job, and I’ve been melting into new days. From the back of my telepathic woods, the past comes to compete for my guilt and my telomeres.
The Love of a Woman is a Desert Dweller
Cool sonnets soak the sweat off my cracking skin. Here in the desert, ghosts made of love hover everywhere. The cacti are ringed in bubblegum pink halos. The love of a woman is a desert dweller. If you water it a little bit once a century, it will cling on, carving your name on grains of sand. Just the tiniest drop will keep it alive. He met me in the onyx city shellacked with heat. My dance card was full, and then he tattooed his name on my silky spirit and wiped my mismanaged hours away. Somewhere, my old self dances and dances because if she stops, she will die. But here in the parched peace of premium paradise, I can rest my weary bones with the ghosts and count my pinkest wounds.
Miniature Moon 