Daughter of mine

Her mother was acute

Knew just what to do

 

Dark, lonely walls

Held on quivering knees

 

The daughter paints

Silver water is her eye

 

Each stroke of the brush

Brandished a new life

 

The man shriveled

Beside his riches

 

Suited, tied and smiled

He was always nice

 

The daughter paints

Jutted jaw, pointed cheek

 

The world’s a scary place,

Mother said.

 

The walls heaved

Spilt paint

 

Life haunted

But never joined her

 

The daughter painted

Til he stood before her

 

Join me in life,

He said.

 

Where have I become?

Crawling with pictures

 

So she climbed out

As death followed her

 

The world’s a scary place,

And Mother lost what she kept.

 

 

Lions lie

Lion in the grass
eyes shiny, and ready

Silky in the grass
he slips past me

And as the sun floats
the winged things too

Up they go,
Two things turn blue

Meeting is uncertain
the end waits, timid

The lions love to tell
but courage isn’t their side

Tight as jaws,
the things love to lie

And so crumble
against broken words

The sweet coo of a roar
the fallen aches of ash

Is all that’s left
and the way is gone

Scared for One an’ Other

Black and smooth like the coral comb from the circus
I saw it through the window on the other side
The moving car, moved alongside the moving walls
While a yellow line rode still in vision of me
Headphones at large whispered to a bobbing beat
When I saw it
The shadows behind me in a glass box
Only gesturing at conversation,
They lost their wind and fell on themselves
The explosion a ghost red, simmering in a graceful yellow
I saw it
Lightning thrown against glass after a faithless rumble
Unlike pieces racing to join another
The glass raced like that into my hair and scalp
‘Till it slid to one side, ’till the cheek hit the seat
‘Till the flecks of color made a world of sense
Man bled, but to us I was one, an other.

Over a Presidente

He seemed too tall, sly with a tilting smile.
He tried too hard, pulling mass-produced slopes with his hair.
He wore too much black as if to take himself too seriously.
He had dull friends with nothing to shine but the light off their skin.
He called himself an asshole but said he’d prove himself wrong.
He boasted alternatives and freedom; too hopeful for his age.
He smiled under pondering fingers and blooming eyes when I quieted him.
He tried to explain himself but my fingers closed and the flappers shut.
He was an asshole meeting a stranger for the first time.

Bygone

Wet sand after the tide left

The shore crawls with life, before ignored

Felt it on the skin, while their hard toes poked

the grit of sand coarse against the teeth,

I said goodbye.

Habits

The ground quaked

As the leg rattled

Sometimes both

Hopping from floor to dust

Shivering at a plague of thoughts

 

Thin skin lifting past

A searching pallet pink–

Blood and teeth–

As it tears away the dryness

 

A hair twirler and an acrobat

Nothing on fire

No baton either

Fingers twisting short locks

Busy again and again

 

Words spit to impale

And alighted flesh a cue

To a palm lifted

As violence forgets love

And simple words that kill the spirit

 

 

A Gray Rat

Feeling dead inside,
Like a gray rat on gray stone
Concrete and tracks
And things taken for granted

Like a slug and a pest
Drooling celestial trails–
Glimmers seen from behind,
Only darkness out front

Like so much evidence,
People determine truth
Like eyes tell the soul
And the aimless wink of a pizza-man

Rats that drag their pink tails
Somehow float past the grime,
More to respect than a parrot that boasts
Rainbow feathers among the clouds

Dream

I had a dream the other night. It was scary and a little funny.

Huge mansion. Endless floors. Purple and green marble. Flying, panning, as in a film, downward through the space. My family affiliated with some kind of mafia. All studies, libraries, offices closing down as i am trying to find a place to hide. I am in a room with two other girls. My sisters? My mother who isn’t my mother is freaking out. I find out my family is addicted to heroine. I hide in a closet. Green curtain? For some reason we decide that won’t work. I hide in blankets at the foot of my bed. I remember thinking this is a stupid idea. Mafia man comes in (he is Asian and short), He tells my “mom” he is looking for me because of some ethnic flaw…or something, apparently they want all the non-pure-bloods killed. This is when I find out why I am hiding, for the first time. He finds me, pulls off the covers. His facial expression is mocking. He laughs as he plunges a syringe into my chest. I feel the stab and the liquid permeating through my muscle. My “mom” is freaking out and screaming and crying. She stabs herself with a blue syringe (mine was red). I later, somehow, find out that it is heroine. The Asian mafia man tells me it is water he has injected me with. He says he is sparing my life, but had to pretend that he was trying to kill me. (what?) He takes me to another room where the mafia women are selling skimpy bikinis in baskets. They try to sell me some, but none fit. Scene  changes to a luxury grocery store. Might be a part of my mansion. My mom and I are shopping. There are free samples of crackers and fruit toppings. I try one. It is very sweet. We decide to buy some. And then,

I wake up.

Disclaimer: This is a dream. My family is not affiliated with any mafia. No one is addicted to heroine.

Coffee and Cigarettes

This might seem a little emo…but, with the weather being what it is today…I feel it is apt. Not my  best writing, but it is a feverish account of my emotions on this sad day.

Coffee and Cigarettes

Work together to calm me down…and all seems beautiful when the two mix.

One through the blood and to the heart, and the other through the lungs and to the mind.

Both seem exciting when mixed.

I’ll miss those cold, sleepy days when the two are necessary to up the spirits.

The sun in me rises when the two mix.

Two worlds combining like a frame, so perfect, it seems chaotic when the two miss.

On my desk; as I sit back, balancing on the edge of open window and closed room,

I see cigarettes, lifeless next to a swirling cup, and I know the two belong together.

Like this pen in my hand, they belong together.

Blood, sweat, and tears. Guilt will tear us apart, but I cling to it

Like the cold in the pit of my insides. Nevertheless they should mix

Should I die for love? Should I die because there isn’t much else to do?

I would die for coffee and cigarettes.

Out of Focus

I once sat on a scratchy gray sofa and remained distracted. I’d gladly admit the convenience of slipping into a temporal state of blissful forgetfulness as the television blinked and blared a couple feet away and the quiet stream of irrelevance vibrated past my lazy form. Lounging uncomfortably, this body, and supposedly its mind, is only animated by the dark frenzy of hair sitting on a tilted head like a pot scrubber on a still wet counter. Meanwhile, the sour, bitter taste of coffee and cigarettes cling to my chapped lips and I can’t stop shuddering against the chill that throbs through these bluing petals. Snapping in and out, like an aged camera, I adjust my lens before flashes of words, familiar tones, and images of superficial ties ascend like windows within a hellishly pallid mind.