Tag: writing

Mother Angst

I am snow. Not real snow. I am too thick and fat and warm for that. But I am equally fickle, white, storm tossed, blinding. There are many just like me swirling in this orb. And who I love is this boy. He is so little, his smile almost too wide for the edges of the plane on which we live. He is a good boy, quiet and sad. I know that if I am not his mother I was meant to be. Still, his life is thin, will tear at a touch, and he will slip out of existence like a mirage of water. I will be left tumbling over strange faces who may have that sweet jaw line or wiry hair, but are not my son.

Memoir of a Rhinestone

Memoir of a Rhinestone

 

The light boils and boils within me.

I grin without skin

and color gushes out.

I was born in the dark and dirt.

Everyone around me was just like me.

Everyone around me knew they were special.

 

And some of us held onto that belief,

and I in my green translucency was not the least of them,

until buried in a wood of polished trees I saw

a green so pure,

so somber with the weight of effort and intention-

formed like a tooth of God,

and I felt my plastic disintegrate .

Memoir as a Dress Outgrown

Memoir as A Dress Outgrown

 

For so long gone I have been a good casing

Like for a bullet hard and dreaming of skin.

I am sleek and shiny.

but no matter the forces against me

I don’t know how to give,

so when the bullet inside me

became molten,

too much material for not enough material

I knew I would be shed,

flying backward to your eyes.

I feel ineffectual,

Insubstantial,

but I know I am beautiful

the way she watches my silken shine on the floor

the way she fingers my creases.

Cheddar Fire

Cheddar fire and

wood smoke lull the senses into luxury.

Barbecued hours are sweet and tangy.

Laying here your silence is meaty,

your want moist.

The house is but a beautiful carcass

you bought from a taxidermist,

covered in cherry blood and the sweat of chocolate.

Everything is warm –

the flavors, the evening,

you when you ask the question

I am designed not to hear.

The grill is breaking his fast.

Do you really need your shirt?

Diet Music

Diet Music

 

plays from the radio,

and my soul still picks daintily.

Is it afraid of getting fat?

So much that it usually eats

it has cut from its pallet.

Friends have been left in the cabinets,

community life in the

desolate freezer.

Color is calm,

though my soul still sneaks scoops

of pulsating shades at midnight.

What soul does not like a bit of electric blue

or Kelly Green

before running away with the dreams?

Perhaps my dreams,

shrinking beneath all my scrutiny,

cannot bear away

a more voluminous soul.

 

The Yellow Sound

She is Juning at a pale farmhouse table,

a gingham table cloth singing to the rhythm of the breeze.

Sunlight sinks sonorous into her dark,

scintillating hair.

Her breath,

her summer rainbow of colors,

her cornucopia of warm feelings –

joy, ecstasy, bliss,

and their pastel coated cousin contentment,

blend in a sweet yellow hum

hovering around her.

He looks at her.

this woman of glow and pure yellow sound

and he wonders how one can contain

heat,

happiness,

music.

Capturing Love on Paper

Pink sabers stab a volume of Ashbery

and I shake the crying alphabet out of the pages

as soon as I am done checking my email.

 

I have three from God, but they look lengthy.

Maybe tonight before bed. B nudges my thigh.

T and F comfort each other,

 

latched for dear life. N bellows,

and C tries to slip under the table

unnoticed, but I catch him.

 

I want to reassemble them, create an audio montage

of the aural imprint of love

because I see its notes, high and low, everywhere