Tag: writing

Dark Blue World

Dark blue world with

a turquoise brooch,

lend me cerulean serenity,

cobalt coal.

In a grunge sweat I awake

to my graying life,

see my watery windows blink,

your image like an oil painting,

then a satisfied sea,

next a poison frog.

Each blink my view of you morphs,

though your honorable navy

shades swear you have never changed.

You glide beyond the reach

of my clock,

ticking away as it tends

to do while the universe is unreachable.

In the vastness of your blue,

in your sapphire essence,

chewy caramel change is king.

Netherworld Named Living

In the great blue fire

covering the city of ghosts

like a well-loved receiving blanket

a wisp of smoke is birthed

from a frigid heat.

What is her name,

this queen of the reaping?

She is a gossamer phantom

with sky ambitions.

While flames whisper through windows,

she skitters in and out of the

bluejay’s lungs,

recycled.

On the fiery airstrip,

the dying plane resembles a tongue.

Her voice is a soft sigh,

a sort of escapism from exhaustion.

The fire climbs through the

ghostly metropolis like a

twisted ivy,

unconscious of her seed rising

to drift elsewhere,

air for a tree in some

distant netherworld

named Living.

9,19,29

Today I am 9, 19, 29.

I look out my window to the used days,

see saw toothed predators

hunting my small, oblivious

head in the long grass.

I am suffocated by the

fire and brimstone perfume

of my own being

as I tiptoe back and

forth between heaven and

hell each day.

I long to let my hair

cascade down my back,

to strip naked in the

unblinking square

and ask the strange things

with six rows of teeth

to take my shame from me

like an unwanted cloak.

Yesterday at dinner,

I was a vulture vivisecting

a yellow canvas,

my talons raw as milk.

Analog Grass

A swift zephyr

makes a wake through

the slobbering air.

Finally sober,

the bluebells cover their

naked blue.

What is it about a field in July

that the soul vacates the

body at the sight of it?

Somewhere my digital life,

a harried and unmastered thing,

whines for my eyes and fingers,

my writhing agency.

But here the analog

grass whispers in the heat

“We will always outnumber

your people.”

On the Farm

In the doting farm,

new chicken wire is born.

I stole my solitude

from the arms of a child.

A facet of womanhood

flourishes among the corn,

abundant and cheap.

I have never owned my name.

My legs are on lease to me.

Hunting dogs bark,

Searching for their canines.

The rabbits have them,

smile as they wait for the

hungry paws of the unsuspecting farmer.

If you do not eat,

neither will I.

The sheep shear themselves

then snuggle underneath

fleece blankets.

I step to the trough to drink,

crack my face on the water.

Beautiful Machine

I am binary,

a code with so many zeroes,

and you are the one.

You have a thick, plush

user interface.

Use me for your gossamer

sweat purposes.

If you rewrite me,

make me a file.

Organize your unchained

thinking of me.

You are a prodigy of design,

pure energy in an age

of tarnished sleep.

Rifle through me,

incorporate whatever

spherical zeroes will make

you whole,

though you lack nothing,

transmit a rain-laced joy

like a virus.