Wild sentence chase down Sincerity, beat him with feathers and tar him with honey. What happens when the truth gets overpopulated? Are you true? I’m true to you.
Tag: writer
Victim
Heavy happenings stain me like ink. When the clouds tease me, they rain just enough to mist my hair. I can never quench my thirst or rinse the shine from my skin. The world is a foil sparkling in my kitchen. Darkness darkness everywhere and not a drop to drink. The crashes out on the train tracks are daily now. I am a victim not yet assigned a death.
Queen Midas
Tangy recollections of pterodactyls in the yard feast on my maladapted days. A cult of glitter waits to coat my dinner. I am Queen Midas. Predators prowl the shores of my body. Body evanescent. Body effervescent. Evolution wears a red sequin dress, her leathery legs exposed, and her petrified breasts heaving in opalescent colors.
Salvation…a Vision
Christmas is a plot line in a novel I sew with the soft pink silk of my lungs. How God, as vanilla voiced as He is, could write a letter of love to a spider with a breathing addiction is beyond me. But I’m grateful. I wear my garnets to the foyer of Bliss and reconfigure my name. When the lightning bug veers too close to me, I cut him free, and I bleed.
3 Visions of God
God is a painter.
Fuchsia climbs teal until a cool zenith is reached.
God is a poet.
The words He sows in the crevices
Of my mind bear fruit a glorious shade
Of red violet.
God is a mathematician.
How 1 can be >1,000,000
And how leaving 99 to go after one multiplies blessings.
Cavorting in Dentists’ Offices
The simple, timeless horrors of self awareness and awareness of others remind me to dress in my dreams. All the nude cavorting in dentists offices is uncalled for. Spiritually, I am 3 feet tall. In the pines of Georgia, sobriety coveting a sandwich eaten by a girl with an old name. Falsify your eyes and leak past the guards of this temple of industry and consumption. What velveteen briars invest in the salted soil of your skin?
My Blue Heart
Daylight drains sanguine in tubes like a corpse’s emissions at the morgue. I will not be so easy for him to break, I say as I gnaw on my bespoke hands. Above the stairwell of my blue heart, a portrait of Dorian Gray, aging like archeology.
Depression
My thoughts are gridlocked.
Red travesties everywhere,
Blue regrets blurring
Into a wistfulness that tastes
Of honey and old soap.
The dark force is here again,
Its claws reaching from my
Quivering core to silence
The voice I have watered daily
For 30 anxious years.
How can I trample someone
With more arms and legs than I?
Depression as spider winding webs
All over the courtyard of my once ebullient mind.
Creativity needs me like the sun needs
Photosynthesis-
Which is to say she doesn’t,
But I need her desperately.
Peel the purposeless purple prose
From my prodigious mind.
Help me unearth truth,
Swimming as she does
Beneath us all
In the water table.
And I Wept
Circular dreams circumnavigate my life,
Forever rolling away to a lulling dreamland
Where my name makes love on the beach
To herself and my flagrant ineptitude.
Dreams are lavender fields,
The hand of God running over them,
Plucking his favorite from the crowd.
After that it’s all up up up.
God is height,
Is depth.
The stillbirth of my ambitions
Haunts me while I scrub the sand
Off the deserted desert.
Wind writes to me,
The party was fantastic!
I waltzed with Purpose.
He touched my clit
And I wept.
Caramel dreams stretch over my
Inebriated mind
With the same kind of power
A drop of water has
Eating at a rock,
Distempered Time,
Take me back to that first
Autumn morning
When Possibility held me in his arms.
Eternal and Ripe
The fog is a fixture of water’s confusion as it bleeds into and against itself. The sultry coolness like an ice cube in a lover’s mouth strokes the water. Water is eternal and ripe. The iconic fragrance of frost lingers over the fog coated world, teaching us what it means to rest and give rest. The lamentations of the marigolds can be heard as a soft velvet hum.
Miniature Moon 