Rolling out of a soul, I squish my teeth against the wall. Fidelity is a good example of how the internet has changed tomorrow. Loyal to my childhood, I spark some sort of emotional issue. My life tethered to a new world.
Tag: writing
Green Code
The grass is a code.
I can’t read it,
But I know the rabbit
Hiding against my fence can.
That’s why he’s hiding
What I do know is
That the flower’s teeth
Have been chattering
All morning.
The hawk is tethered
To his nest.
He is of no concern
The chemicals will move
With grace
A gentle burning
That lulls life away.
Changing Landscape
The monsoon
Hit the desert hard
He had been through
So much,
But this?
Life smokes some weed
And doesn’t care.
Drowning in fluorescent
Torrents,
Sand looks for a way
Out.
Explode
My tectonic youth
is subducting.
I explode on my paper house
as a black cherry ash
Particles of my personality
Swell
up
like a flooded
Well.
If I wasn’t so brilliant
I would drown.
The diamonds forming
Under my tongue save me
And tell a story of fun.
Journey to 4
When the blood covered
the stones,
3 was created
It was then
That the staple guns
Came out
1 was a motion – imperceptible
2 was an equation –
the question and the answer.
3 looked like a rain puddle.
3 was made of metal.
With a blowtorch,
The creation of 4 as a
fine piece of art
The whole is less than
The sum of its parts
Permanent subtraction,
Each a negative
Sucking from her own math
Under the bitter heat
This metal does not
Waver.
I Was Born For Now
I am the cloak of winter
shed too soon in the meadow
where naked spring is
penetrated by thawing snow.
Unneeded,
I whip around in the wind.
When your home is a time,
leaving is a dangerous,
ferocious thing.
New Cleaner, Close Call, Horror Story
We are looking for a new house cleaner. I hopefully have someone coming to interview today. We’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to go much longer without someone to clean. Obviously, I clean too. But I definitely need someone to come on a regular basis and do cleaning.
I have been sick. I have been vomiting bile for hours every day for several days. I finally went to an emergency room to make sure that everything was okay and that I didn’t have a recurrence of a medical problem I have had before. They took a CT scan and said that everything was good. They gave me some medicine for nausea, and I’ve been taking that for 2 days. It helps a lot more than it did when I was pregnant. They also told me that I have a cyst on an ovary that probably needs to be fixed. Sometime this week I will call a gynecologist. I just really don’t feel like it. I don’t want to go into one. So if it’s not too big I will probably just let it burst. It hurt like hell the last time that happened to me but at least I didn’t have to go in for one of those god-awful exams. It’s just important to make sure that the cyst is not above a certain size because if it is you can have a lot of internal bleeding when it ruptures. I am just beyond grateful it wasn’t the problem I was afraid it was.
It must be a stomach bug, but this is a very unusual and long-lasting stomach bug.
I have been doing some writing but not as much as I would like. On a bright note, I have begun writing horror (what a weird sentence). I’ve been talking about it for ages, but I put fingers to keyboard and I started a story. I have the beginning how I want it, although as usual I will have to revise 50 more times. I just not sure how I want it to end. I’m not sure where I want to take it. And I have a second story in the works.
Books
The electric book hums,
breath gently, contently
escaping between pages.
What if you popped a balloon
and the air kept coming
and coming?
This conjuncture stays in
the library where it belongs
tended by the purple librarian.
In the living room
the dance has become
joints half eaten by microbes,
rhythmically popping.
What starts as a good time
will end in death
as it always does.
In the shelves,
a sleeping beast with my face.
Can’t Be Held
I have released pleasure
from my net.
Over the years I have
captured every domesticated thrill,
caught every unguarded illusion.
But pleasure was the prize.
I cannot nail it in my shadowbox.
It withers when it does
not travel.
Motives
My motives caravan
through a red, peerless desert.
Water travels just ahead
slightly faster than either I
or my mirror glass needs
can go.
Out here,
straws and dictionaries
present serious problems.
As though it were dead skin
scraped from the devil’s heel
by a pumice stone,
my purest motive blows
around the others.
If I flew my determinations
like kites,
attached to my stringy nerves,
could they rise to Heaven
and beg for a cloud?
