with a snake for a spinal cord,
I weave through the professional world
of cubicle ant colonies,
flicking my tongue for the taste
hickies stashed beneath my blazer,
mischievously scented thighs,
in economic speak: the most sensible
return of investment. here,
in the dripping maze
I mean business.
within one microcosmic glimmer of perfection
could anyone truly understand the ship wreck which is my mind?
like a moon whose shadow wanes as it grows,
i run away from the puzzling shape of humans
like a fish out of water
but on steroids.
A poem a day
For the times you’re away
From what could be
Somehow, the rain becomes a flood
and you, the trigger of the pulse
of my whimsical world
are muddled beneath the steady
cadence of rain drops + umbrellas.
i’m left to wonder
over the pyramid of time
when we lived, embraced
the rain with open eyes
and let it wash upon
our dirty and broken
forgive me, i’m trying
to treat an addiction that burns
with an impulse so strong
it once carried me like a parachute soldier
across the ocean, through farmlands,
into a cacaphonous and glorious muck. new orleans, where the passion is so endless
without you, i’m a ghost walking a tight rope.
a movie without a script,
free to stumble and fall
although she doesn’t yet know the strings,
she walks along the beach every morning
at seven o’clock sharp,
never looking for seashells,
always singing about the sun…
old toes barefoot on sand
in a crisply washed, fruity sundress
that billows like a kite
cheerfully anchored to the shore
with books of poetry
and index cards of homemade recipes
and fourty-minute phone calls with
strange aunts who live in Michigan
she cannot sing well but joins
the ukulele circle every morning
along the beach, and she’s taking lessons
starting this June to learn how to play,
but I swear, somehow she already knows
its sunny rhythm.
spills into the empty marketplace
of my useless poems.
i am dizzy with the illusion of love,
its whispers of fear,
my heart shudders to recognize,
it remains scattered, yet coalesces
like a hive mind, within the DNA
of a billionaire’s multitude:
where i’m unchartable and rigidly anonymous.
a moment heats
and overflows, and turns icy
and fractures, and melts,
and waters down to grass,
and grows new, and burns
once more. so the ash piles up
I light a candle to smell its burn.