Tag: writing

She

She is stove-mouthed

and thinks hideously.

Between her teeth are scrolls

from cities asleep.

Death cartwheels on my lawn

mostly to impress her,

And because in his spare time he has a pinwheel fetish.

After dark she will write my eulogy and

I will thank her

and never know her name.

Pink Ghosts

Pink ghosts make HIPPA violations.
A bed is growing into me.
One ghost whispers you are going to die
And another giggles.

I know I say
But not today and not tomorrow.

Walls hum.
My pills confer with my blood.

Pills are day makers
And skin often wants no hours dragged out of me.

Better to die like this, my sunburn peel once explained to me,
Young and perfect.
A museum of possibility.

Instead I gorge on sweet filled pills
And make mondays

The clock admires me.
Pretty ghosts titter.
My head screams. When the pills make days my head tries to send them back.

A hand holds my hand.
The morning binges and the evening purges.
Another day dead another in birth canal

Persuading new residents is such a drag,
Hissed the rosest spirit.

The Narrator

The narrator is mopping the floor with my tears,

which for him fall like rain through a hole

in the roof.

What promise this day had,

born at the height of the malleable moon.

What now,

since favor, faith, and fancy have

disintegrated?

The narrator begins with an article

that will barely clothe me from the cold.

Outsonneted

I have been outsonneted by a suction cup,

Clinging to my window like a starfish to the sea.

Lately my similes get away from me,

Dogs always unearthing hideous bones in

My backyard.

The curious climate of my moist mind

Is most conducive to marigolds, azaleas,

The pancreas.

My face is all sugar,

My tongue a cola.

See the stained glass the suction cup holds?

Memorabilia from an unremembered saint.

Pharmacological Fog

Recapturing yourself will be easy.

White still in the bedroom,

structure from private, necessary snow.

dreaming of silence.

Your mind is a playground of artillery.

 

Capturing the sense of yourself will be hard,

Lost 2 feet tall in a field of chaff.

The women have needles and no yarn.

A man sits toward the curdling sun,

his face a mouth.

 

Sound your siren song

A gentle offering of wisteria wishes

and sulking letters.

Give her a sonorous rope to tie round her wrist

a little balloon bobbing desperately toward mass.