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.
Tag: writer
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.
Daisy Hunter
A hurt huntress of daisies, I came to bleed and break. I’ve bled over the hungry fields, the glades gladdened with a lattice work of sunbeams, and watched flowers flow like a river. The roses are baptized in their hues of red and blue. I shed like salt crystals over the river, feeding fish that prowl the surface collecting crafty crud. I am the queen of crafty crud and cuddly credibility. What will I do when the blood, the skin, my name are all gone? Who will cull the daisies, keep insidious floral populations in check? No one cares that an orchid ate a child last week, or that he said the 6 year old’s chi was better than crack and then proceeded to bloom in 13 colors for 6 days afterward. The mother is still muttering and mumbling down in the garden, broken and bent by grief. And who will feed my fish that clean the sunlight off the surface of the water to let the depths have their dependable darkness?
Pain
Time acquired dilapidated properties at the edge of my publicized lake in the inner folds of my mind. This life is a performance for the entertainment of angels who do not laugh. Their weeping kisses the lilypads with dew. Frogs sing and philosophize. Time vacations here to taunt my memories and fragile wishes. Life must be grasped by the sharp end and plunged into matter like glass shards to harvest a wine so bittersweet with lilac pain that I can’t bear the rustic smell of music.
Despair
I wander into night like a stain into a wedding dress, not seeing the disaster I am for the black velvet around me. Hairy voices of monsters dissecting my name echo against the fur lined dark. Escapism is a red and blue striped slide from the playground of my private wallowing well down to the depths of whatever a red light district calls despair. I walk the greedy streets in stilettos, my footsteps Morse code for sadness along the listless lane.
Micro Fiction – My Grandma’s Trailer
I walk down the rickety lane to Grandma’s trailer, the Taj Mahal as we called it, and knocked on the peeling yellow door. It was a single wide, and the siding was coming off from a recent hurricane. The North Carolina humidity shimmered, speckled with mosquitoes. Then grandma opened, her expansive voice welcoming me into the marble foyer. As she closed the door behind me, I greeted the koi in her fountain.
“What brings you over, Cupcake?” she asked.
“I need to borrow a little TNT for my mom.”
“Ok honey. It seems like every day it’s something, which would be fine but she never returns anything. She still has my cyanide shaker and my mentrual map.”
Grandma takes off, surprisingly spry for a hip recipient, down the corridor on the left. She whisks past the library and the music room, the terrarium room and the aquarium room. She comes back with a carefully wrapped parcel and hands it to me gingerly.
“Be careful. Remind your mother Sunday night is dinner with Father Rohrer and the Zeitgeist of the 80s.”
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.
My Seafaring Love
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.
Miniature Moon 