Thursday, May 19, 2016
Will your name be the last I utter from my lips? (yes) I have lived in service of lust, treating my well-being like a god, (Never goddess, there’s a difference) I can’t seem to stop in desperation And though I wish they were fewer, those silent screams They are as much my universe as your long remembered touch Oh how I broke myself against you, like water to rock. A fool’s gold quarry, split and shiny but worthless Despite this death you brought I will love you in multitudes of forever. But remain quiet longer.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Scarification mornings with tea and oatmeal Counting off each day, every day One slash at a time, an angst burdened teenager in a middle-aged body (I bought a house, you know. It is big and empty.) Inhale vitamins to balance wine against fake smiles, while I dream of a time when Gauloises wouldn't have hurt Paper embers encircling tobacco, small and smaller and smallest until I disappear into the smoke of all I've forgotten There's Me Deciding never to write of you after this Wishing I could do same with these thoughts of calloused hands cupping my breasts Of being lifted into your eternity With each thrust So now I am pathetic, the kind of woman-girl at whom I shake my head Here's Me Closing in-on a year of oh-so-broken, in quietest whispers, that my bones crack and separate as I sleep walk through the hours Took time away from the bottle even but you were too vivid without a black out (I blame the flame for all of it.)
Sunday, January 24, 2016
In the early parts of the last few months, I wrote witchy words on worn parchment, asking for you to come back. Then I burned them, indigo paper feathers blown into thin mountain air. You couldn’t have known the ceremony, it was in my head. It was also in my head that it was better you were gone, eventually, as each ritual became less necessary with your assured distance and my growing disdain not for you, but for having lost you. I floated through summer blocking the sunshine with white-rimmed shades because you are the kind of boy a girl copies, not the other way around. I wear darker colored glasses now to shield my eyes, conceal any trace of your reflection in them because surely you are imprinted there. I want no one to see the chimera I carry, including myself. So I stopped looking into my own eyes even… You ripped off the Band-Aid too soon and though I was left bloody, the scab would eventually come by autumn. I traced its rippled colors with leaves of similar crispy crimson stock… until it was time to rake them. I wasn’t cleansed, but winter brought cold and as snowflakes melted against my hands when I dusted the car, absent-minded ritual, a previous us frozen in time…I knew I was close. There was only a faint scar. Then you came back. You fucking came back. You rode north on metal horse power bound for high country and the day it happened I knew without knowing. I could feel you again. I could feel myself again. I could breathe the solstice, darkest day, and smell the steam from the river Styx warming the air. Did I conjure this? I was suddenly brave enough to look at our happy faces together in forbidden photographs, long hidden in a desk drawer, and wonder what it would mean to see you again. How would we react? Could I keep my composure, especially if the situation presented itself in a less than ideal manner? Laugh out loud. There could be nothing “ideal.” There never is.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Thursday, October 22, 2015
The Bell Jar has nothing on the bell state, (Though some outcomes seem random, they usually aren't) knowing that each quibit of us, DNA, RNA, Nano-possibilities exists on this plane separate but so very connected. ...That if we had just arraigned our equations for the right outcome, it could have been. But is there even a right and left in reflection? (I still touch my hand to yours from the other side of the mirror, every day) We live outside of the entanglement, decoupled. detached. The theory of us greater than any spirit, But it's just theory And can be applied to anyone, so it should seem...
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
The war horse makes war The peace horse, peace A bushel of our limited time is spent building and rebuilding And not enough asking forgiveness (soil can’t hear our toil, unless we lay in it and then: it’s too late) In our inherent laze we create malaise, between each other and our mother We leap forward only to bind ourselves backwards. To the technocrat brat, renew your energy by breathing trees Build a fire and cook the food you grow, the animal you hunt… Sleep under the Milky Way and drink, let your infant eyes nurse this galaxy And then tell me if the space you spoil with wires and buyers Is worth the loss?