My Mondays are cocooned,
my years a chrysalis from which
only my age emerges.
Safe in my silverlit silk, I am
an unsung liquor,
and unbefriended possibility.
Failure cannot gnaw my alabaster soul.
In my serene rooms,
I float weightless,
worry bought and sold by someone else.
Tag: writer
In the Desert
The red design of undefined,
undeniable desert repels touch.
The curvature of the dunes
the body of a woman rewriting
an unslakable history.
Walk five miles.
Walk ten.
Water is a cross you will never bear.
In the bare heat I shiver,
my nakedness known to the sun,
x-raying my barren dress.
My Knit Mind
The seams of my knit mind are rupturing,
the contents in the sack
purple and insidious.
My sight hangs from a tree.
My tongue is sacred and violated.
The fields that lie behind me
Creep ever closer. The
butterflies sharpen their fangs.
Guide the Leopard Home
With rainbow ease I
sew my image on the mirror.
I have not blinked in days,
and now I see through
clouds to the dancing dead
shimmering in copper.
When I was born
(between songs)
my self was already old
and imprinted in glass.
When my face begins to crack
the glass will implode.
My self was born some time
between yesterday and
happily never after.
I need mirrors to make me remember
the things I once had memorized,
the monotheistic candle wicks
I must light,
To guide the leopard home
through the silo of night.
Self so stiff and soft,
stitched ad infinitum
in eternity.
Invention
Insolvent, insolent, innocent invention,
An open blister where money
And sleep sink,
Tucked in their skin.
He invented the blister,
The pit of pity.
His cash split,
Leaving him with hunger
And insubstantiality.
And yet, like a name,
The blistering invention is as
Unconscious as it is unwholesome
He needed a place for his
Incomplete necessities,
And he crafted one of dark matter,
Negative space.
Primal
Her legs are incendiary.
Though I travel 100 miles,
Dragging the point of myself
Through broken glass,
She watches my natural fullness like
A leopard a pattern in the grass.
Hunt my beastful blush,
Lick the harmony of my breasts.
What can she sing with her lips
Pursed in kiss?
Her waist the willfulness of tornadoes,
Her soft belly bread
Baked in the Parisian dawn.
It is the ritual of her hands hunting me,
The reminds me that pleasure rhymes
With guilt.
The Yellow Wallpaper
Miniature Moon 