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

solitary fish

She keeps her Siamese Fighting fish in a glass bowl
Gravel glimmering in aquatic blues and mermaid greens
A solitary fish might believe lake, or better yet, ocean
The pet store suggests Sammy live alone,
otherwise he might kill his friend
The red-orange Betta is fire under water
She is fire under water too
Her lavender room is a glass bowl
She and Sammy swim in tiny circles in small worlds
A wooden peace sign beneath her bed
Painted with glitter and all the paint jars within reach on the picnic table
Long wooden benches occupied with sweaty kids who whittled words into tiny canoes from two-by-four scraps
The wood, leftover construction from a nearby development
She swims in a luxurious new home
many rooms, many spaces, glass bubbles, no air
The peace sign is tacked behind Sammy’s bowl
It reminds her of summer camp, a happy temporary time
fair-weather friends
She grows into autumn alone
The seasons, solitary
A huge house and a small fishbowl
one mother
one daughter
one fish

Hair Hiding

latent images

You press my eyelashes to my face, so I can sleep
You understand how latent images frighten me
Linger-ers of things no longer here
Specters of visions previously forgotten
My REM world has no room for ghosts,
when my daily world explodes with spiriting insanity
The floating muses who once fed me fire are burning away my soul
Half the time, I want to die
The other half, I need you
You hum my favorite song to me, even though you think a tune from,
Mr. Magoo’s: A Christmas Carol, is ridiculous
“…millions of grains of sand on the shore, why such a lonely beach…”
Taunting demons keep the headless roosters raving in my head
I badly need your sweet notes, like cotton clouds, to muffle these assaults

There is an empty slope on your side of the mattress
I smell your assuring body in the pillows–
beautiful lips in the sheets
Your undisturbed water glass has collected my tears
Singing silence, is a sound worse than death
Death, is a sound the earth hums when her children return home
I’ve sliced off my eyelashes
Shoved broken toothpicks against my sockets
Stare at the television without blinking
Click the remote
Latent creatures slither into my eyes
Crawl up the sides of my brain–
rip at the cracks of my skull
They whisper horrid things to the better part of me
I will dance with demons
I will romance angels
I will scream at the Holy Spirit
I will allow all manner of vindictive specter–
every hellacious image of the night to dwell within my soul
I will not desist until you rest beside me again
I am not supposed to be here without you

in the blueless

back and forth back and forth back and forth
splattering rain, this redundancy of motion
the last hopeful sky un-recalled
this bleak morning, too early for the sun
a thousand immolating balls can’t bring warmth to this day
God is false hope manufactured by bible companies
angels are myths playing dress-up for lingerie chains
a broken deer on the side of the road
wonder if she knew
from the looks of her cracked torso, I doubt it
some car folded her body like a dollar store blanket
the lifeless trees are no better than emaciated throats and fingers
nothing for them to swallow
nothing to grab onto
nothing for me
nothing for us
they will remain naked
I remember you, inside me
moonlight and indigo lovemaking
tick tock tick tock tick tock
blinker irritating
another road, same lousy scenery
silver lining lately on a bottle of red and designer label
paying a bit more than usual for spirits, cheer costs
this blueless is overwhelming
the radio melodies on
gently at first
she floats into my interior dystopia
Sarah Vaughan’s nuanced soul
and I know, I will believe in angels again
someday

leonada’s earring

 

If I should be

If I should be a smoker
I should be a rail
thin and hard
evenly spaced
biting air with my crocodile teeth
resilient to the storm
when you hold tight to me

but I am not a smoker

If I should be a drinker
I should be a laundry basket
oblong and woven
uneven and crosshatched
with soft rhythms
conducting washer and dryer
yet deep enough to hold our secrets

but I am not a drinker

If I should be an addict
I should be a window curtain
billowed and looped
iridescent colors against atmosphere
floating in the updraft
into the west winds
where our bodies might mingle together

but I am not an addict

If I should be a cutter
I should be a jewelry box
sectioned, parceled and organized
velvet lined and sweet
compartmentally selfless
storing each pained memory
in gilded lockets clutching tarnished chains

but I am not a cutter

If I should be a writer
I should be an ash urn
cylindered smooth
bottom cupped
shell polished and etched
holding safe all that we were
scattering soon our cremated remnants

but I am not a writer

mint eyes

 

not where I live

Today, I’d like to write something about me.
Not from a clever place.
That’s not where I live.

Rather, I am someone who picks at her scabs
and watches them fall into Rorschach patterns
on the foot-flattened carpet.

Insignificant silhouettes that go unnoticed,
except by those fascinated with inkblots and
inexplicable stains.

communal totem