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.
Tag: writer
Social Drudgery
Voracious velocity vivisects my slow grace, the day chomping at my peace like a piranha. I was having a delightful time – finger sandwiches and ostentatious bird song, when the all encompassing pace of contemporary social drivel knocks me out of my luscious galoshes. Now I paint black polka dots on meerkat caskets, waiting to retire and expire.
Desires
Surprisingly, Death’s door is butter yellow with a pink butterfly wreath. My alter ego is drunk in my neighbor’s garden, touching her pansies in the most unbecoming way. When I cross Death’s threshold tonight in the lingerie I bought at the discount department store, the fraying rayon pulling taut over my eagerness, all my menstrual blood will gush out of the house. My terror will be the breeze on your back as you stand on my grave and say, “Where did you put my satisfaction?”
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.
Fear
Risky grass points at the sun, accusing her, blaming her for their birth. Here, the bullets hover just above the nape of the neck. This is a wholesome place because Fear is the primordial feeling, black and polished as onyx. Fear is honest. It does not succeed in subterfuge.
A Drowning Woman
Winter rebrands as peace. There’s a barcode in my phosphorescent heart. Scan it and ring up my frosted ambition. Music is balm to a world wounded by so much silence. To film peace, place cameras on either side of a drowning woman. Wait two minutes.
I Will Never Get What I Want
Irregular dreams snag on the rough edges of my mind. Fortune favors the invited. At the gold boundaries of my name, the breath of my lover moistens me like a valley. One dream is moldy. Another is antiquated. Still another dream is dripping with purple amoebas. But all of them collect on my edges, and I begin to crumble from desire. I will never get what I want. My wishes party like reprobates on the front lawn of Destiny, and they didn’t invite me.
An Alien in Washington, DC
Pugnacious earth battles for me as I try to ascend to space. There is more space in me than outside me. In my name are many caverns of conspiring fungi and blind creatures of emptiness. I am a science fiction flavored novel about an alien trying to assimilate in Washington, DC. Politics are muck between my toes. I want to be in a felt universe of needlepoint stars, not here in an antebellum planet tied to gravity like a little brother I don’t get along with.
On Michigan Drive
On Michigan Drive, I grow up pressed between rocks. “More weight,” I cried as I gasped toward maturity. The fire that formed my bones still burns bright in the bleeding Earth. I won’t break just because the universe demands I do. Trees claw through the twilight sky, sagging under the weight of amber weight of Autumn.
In My Mind
Circles circumnavigate my globular mind. My day is a spider waiting to suck the marrow from your youth. My night is a silken web with stars captured in it. They are desperately trying to writhe and squirm away. Time is always hungry. I am cornerless, fearful, fecund. In my mind are three races of thought, and they are always engaged in some imperial war.
Miniature Moon 