My grandmothers skin is pickled rainbows
Bright from life, and crumpled with use
Every painstaking line a story
Of her joys and sorrows;

The day she met my grandfather
Her first day of school
Stealing cookies from the jar
The day she had my mother,
The day her mother passed on.
Riding horses,
Colder winters,
Cheaper candy,
Family picnics in summer,
And sneaking out of the house ...

My grandmother is beautiful,
And I love every story
That her rainbow shows.

My arms flung wide
Head flung back
And my eyes are closed
I'm floating in black
I'm waiting for that hand
To pull me out
Of this strange land
But I'm also fine waiting,
Here is smooth and calming
Not bad, or mad like passion is
But rather a darkness balming
The sores from the last man who tried

Mind shifting
Wet face feircly dripping
Puddles and puddles of wax
Spectacular mind attacks
Twisting and churning
And missing and yearning
And waiting for something,
Not sure what, you're tiring
Crumple in slowly from the weight
And finally succumb to the endless fate

Honeycomb mazes
And sweet honey hazes
Thickly sweet, mind glazes
Confused, smoke blazes
Making a home unconscious races
Falling asleep in honeyed cases
Trusting those honeyed faces
Gold drips away from honeyed places
And left with confined spaces
Wax rooms, so smooth
And no longer honeyed, but true.
*wake up

Gently I watch from the dark
Pushing up a thin tissue front
Into the harsh light.
It wavers in the breeze, yes,
But let's through some honeyed light
Enough to twine my fingers through
And pour into me with life
My sheild from the burning,
Men with claws scratch, boring holes
That burn before my tissue can close,
And a sore, stinging soul
But the dark will wash it away
With tears and hope,
Innocence before it opens its eyes
To the light.

Mint tea and lazy mornings
Dust motes drifting
Sun slowly lifting
Cotton brain
Coffee stain..
Ready to go
(On the outside)

Long car trips
Crowded with junk
And cramping legs
Flashing light streaming through the window
Into the muggy car air,
A trapped fly banging on the glass,
Low rumbling like gravel thunder
And bursts of shaking
Rattling teeth and seatbelts
When you roll over stones
Wisps of vented air
Curling around your naked toes,
And sweaty, rumpled clothes.
Skin sticking to fake leather seats
The slight sifting sick in your belly
Sitting fat like a toad,
And hoping the stuff in the back
Isn't shaking or breaking apart
From the crunching washboard gravel,
And drowsy eyes, tired from endless trees
Slowly drift until you arrive in the dark