a possum is smoking a cigarette on
top of a small barn in the field.
inside the barn, a mama births
a batch of baby sheepdogs
their eyes still caked shut--
a world awaits.
as the possum finishes his last drag,
i watch the trees in the yard
get up & walk away.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
i have never felt more at home,
instantly welcomed, loved by strangers,
sleeping with the trees,
i shower with a sister under the sun
& we tiptoe our way to the lake,
feel the softest sand,
because we want to stay naked,
let the heat warm our skin
after months of piling on layers,
icing ourselves like a cake of cotton.
there is something innate & essential
to be free in the woods:
the two of us started the movement,
now a crowd of **** brothers & sisters
tread banks of sand & fallen pollen.
Pops comes around the bend with his canoe,
takes us to the dock in the middle of the lake.
Pops, with his sunburnt skin of muscles and tales
names me goddess of the lake.
all of us hold a bit of the net
to catch fish through the hole at the dock.
we laugh because
this is how we are meant to be.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
a mid-spring winter
right now there is a battle in the sky--
a dichotomy of hemispheres, a broken
line splits the two:
one is the smoke of an impending storm,
strong whistles slide through the maze of bamboo stalks
they are forced to samba back & forth, all
the windchimes are struck like tambourines,
and with growing roars from the chicken coop,
the music of the moment
is an unrehearsed orchestra on speed.
the doors on the porch swing wildly,
touched by armies of ghosts, & each creak in the
bamboo treehut declares itself, all is graced with
new kinds of movement.
the other half of sky is peaceful, silent
what’s left of the glow peaks through turquoise sheets,
until it is ****** by the black hole of gust.
the storm brings such a beautiful haunting to the sanctuary.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
phantoms
the evening when I lay
for a nap until midnight,
left the house lights blazing,
all doors cracked open
as my tabby-cat chews
on the ends of my hair
on my bed.
midnight comes & goes with ease,
the cycle of my saliva waterfalls
begins, making art
on the pillowcase,
my breath deepens with moonrise.
yet as the hour enters the darkest point of night
the lights in the hall panic--the start of a seizure:
they dance on & off with indecision.
there is no one else in my home
but these atoms tug my chest
in-between slumber & light,
half-cracked eyes
& a heart of speed,
i levitate
to meet the spirit
face-to-face
hers, the vintage frame of a Lichtenstein
in shadows,
her floating face
is a talking head
but i can’t hear a word
from the mouth in motion,
not even a whisper.
i respect her presence
but squeeze my eyelids & turn over
into a scared sleep.
i want to know
what she had to say
i want to purge the darkness
that makes spurs my pulse
in the presence of phantoms.
Pt. II
i felt them again in the hummingbird room,
with it thick window that shows the swaying
shagbark branches winding up for a fight,
and the high window that lets me peak
at the waxing gibbous,
when the clouds let us see her.
spirits came in through computer screens
in the invisible attic
but the Lightweaver
sent them away.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
messages from the mountain sanctuary
the scariest image i can think up:
rows & rows of rooms without windows.
the scariest thought:
placing your mind in the future.
when you can’t
see the dancing loblollies outside those windows,
taste the skin of your newest lover,
smell the burning cedar in the ancient
potbelly stove that heats the whole house.
let go of everything
to begin to breathe bliss,
turn your body into an empty mug,
you will be full of
the sweet brew of
this moment.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
What desire was teased
that morning, the pairing
of backaches & amphetamines
left me rocking under sweaty sheets
wide-eyed, the numbers on the clock
passed the Devil’s hour to your time.
You call on me as magpies call each other
after sunrise.
What desire was teased
that drove my frail, bleeding body
with its bloodshot eyes
onto the roads,
passing yards of pacing possums
to your ****** Lake home.
What desire brought a comfortable
smile to my lips as I watched you
pour Bud Light in wine glasses
and call yourself fancy?
The chrome half-moons
under your eyes grow darker,
layered, like nightfall.
The wrinkles on your
forehead are drawn on now,
lucid, in the unwelcome light
that graces through these
basement windows.
You beckon me to the bathroom
where fresh snow awaits.
I wonder why I follow you,
watch you take in too much--
clear the snow from the countertop,
then we attack each other,
we are leopards
on your red velvet couch
only for a minute--
your heavy eyes close
your body gives a final shrug.
I carry the old man to bed,
place cold water on his lips
and lay with him,
pretending to sleep as
his bones rest on my soft skin.
A sad danger always lingers behind callithumpian ways,
[my maternal instinct needs a new outlet.]
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
i skim the cautionary sign on the wall,
trace the worn, beige corners
of stained, manmade words
with the paint-stained pads
of my fingertips.
the words remind me of how
we want to imprint everything--
silent objects, the cold copper posts
on roadends
they tell you not to question
the autonomous compass
that borrows
inside the souls
of your feet.
who writes the manuscripts for walls?
the dramatic monologues of inanimate objects
my walls of celery speak for themselves:
this house is powered by tacos.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
seductive decay
on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.
and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.
old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
nightmare
in evening suburbia,
a piss-stained moon huddles overhead like a cautious mother
to guide rows & rows of carbon copy homes.
the moon’s glare stains the sky unsettling hues,
the air is like a blanket of bristles.
i am on the street, dry calloused soles
brush chrome cement.
i let my ponytail fall free, and feel hidden, pounding
streams of eyes, i’m uneasy like the moon.
as i pass an empty lot, the lot that is animated
with a rainbow of ripe fruits
on Saturday’s market, now grey and aching.
a soft murmur grows, closer,
i half-expect a wild fox to pass by,
but see Ania’s forested Suburu swarm
in to scoop me, her window lowers and i see her eyes,
held wide with fear settled in the irises, as if piranhas are secretly
gnawing her legs there, its not funny.
come quick, she squeals at me as I jump inside
onto the milky mildew upholstery, she
never stops driving,
(omit?: we are escaping some sort of madness.)
back on the street, a man expands, shapes
into a monstrous teradacytl like an Anamorphics novel
he chases us, I feel his pull from behind,
inside a dark matter,
as he rides atop a pickup truck and I am
latched to the back of the Suburu, surrendering.
the beast sprays this magical mist that
makes me feel like melting, like after a hit of a heavy ******
that sweet, dark, ethereal pull,
like a lovestruck teen on an apathy ride,
i become a useless solider.
the next scene happens in the kitchen of an uninfected family,
their pink lips warn us of grandmothers that wander into homes
with five-dollar bills, they ask you to take them to the theater--
but if you even gently caress the bill, they will become monstrous,
their white hair dissipating into scaly skin, the demonic eyes
won’t leave your memory.
they are innocent masks, similar to the stray streetcats
who shift shapes, turn
to bloodthirsty pedestrians.
perhaps suburban ***** birth tiny monsters:
the after-effects of the danger, the distortion of
finding comfort in apathy.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC