in pursuit of abandonment

Jelly is a tattoo artist
in pursuit of abandonment
A hermit living inside flesh
she no longer recognizes
Primitive symbols characterize
lack of faith inked between her thighs
where once laid a man
His powerful chest mapped with wings
and of her hands
failed tools in a sterilized world
Beauty once pronounced itself
her skin rippling with pleasure
of his touch
of their flight
how high they moved
clouds bursting at nothingness
artifice of design
Where fiscal movements placed flat objects of desire
on bodies desiring
husks of fake color
Meaningless and watered away
Peering into crystal rocks
the masses tattooed
trying to coverup who they are
Jelly’s body nearly blue from the cold
every follicle of flesh stabbed with pigment
her crimson heart broken from his pain, not the needles
now
naked, she lies down to die alone
with her artful hands
like elegant gloves

the ark

snake charmers pecking at malnourished carcasses
bodies strangled in murderous waters
walls so high, mountain steeples flatten
follow the arc of the convenient
the long story is best told aboard travelling vessels
bridging episodic whims
this is where they followed
the writers
two by two
in it for the long journey spanning centuries
creative creatures called to board
before the raging floods of sameness
drown out overweight minds and weak voices
protected in the ark, safe to endure extreme swells
the chosen and their miraculous words survive mankind’s dysfunction
sowing seeds for independent reaping
sun to sun to sun
after earth recovers and swollen rivers recede
writers perished by insignificant waters finally reveal themselves
their dried out bones almost identical

golden horses

editing

fake flowers in an outdoor garden I’ve buried
tracks inside a puma’s paw leading outside the cave
my hands place glass beads beneath your naked feet
crush and drink the blood
too much?
tacky paper for trapping wingless appellations
where many thoughts stick then expire
rather like the spider spinning threads too thin for binding
I am here, always in your black places
thinking on a bridge, crossing soil to sand
’tis a fine thing to sleep construct with glass balloons
bursting when I wake
inside my lava chest, a torrent of hot ash
running the length of my breast and tangling my legs
I will return to my chilled sheets at moonrise
rebuild the span of me, you have not yet found
only the tunnel to my nightmares is wide open