How can I say "We're just friends"
When I taste you in my dreams
Your honeyed savoriness on my tongue
Formed itself
Useful
You dance like an angel
In the center of my pupils
Your song is exceptionally sweet
It humbles my spirit
Divulges me
That we are all just hummingbirds
Vigorously, hunting for a melody
Auctioning off welfares
For pleasures swimming in vain
Selfishly
We've never enjoyed the necter without the pain of
Piercing thorns
With handicapped feet,
We dream to fly
60 miles a beat
How I wish the breeze
Would carry me
Straight to your home of
Butterfly Weeds
Longing for the eightenth year, to sore away
Just as a sweet bundle in Mama's womb
In the nest we mature and anxiously wait
Extremities
Planted firmly on the dirt
His amour
Gives me wings
And, I flutter
His humming is a pleasing sound
Searching for a fullfillment
Two times our body weight
In the ebony of my skin
I inertly wait
Wishing for reincarnation
A
New
Life
Of a harmless, beautiful
hummingbird
Harmonizing its way
Across God's blue sky.



                             Copy Right 2013
                                    ©Patty Ann

To entertain
means to be starkers
and dance with veils,
to exoticize war
and tremble in
a thousand rhythms.
Bejeweled as a spy,
nevertheless,
don't know why.
Eye of the day,
and a dozen matchlocks
had me inertly settle
upon my knees,
before bending at my waist
to take one last look
at the fiery heavens.

I leaned in towards her, mimicking the curve in her back and the squint in her eyes. I rested my chin in my hands, completing the final touches to creating a mirror between us. A mirror. I smiled to question which one of us was the reflection and which was the reflector. Or, perhaps, we are inertly tied together at the wrist. The definition of reflecting written in my scars, hidden beneath my cardigan.  I smiled, and she smiled back, no longer questioning me, no longer doubting any part of my sincerity. I leaned back, and she followed me, relaxing into her new role.
I knew that I had her now, that I had all the power. With this, I formed promising words on my lips. Caressed careful tears down my cheeks while her head nodded and her hand jotted. I weaved the world I lived in, colored it red and black, or blue and pink. I brought her to the edge of the cliff side, and nudged her in, to be ****** under the carpet of waves and disappear in the waters and the wild. But, I brought her back up, nestled her in my arms and drifted back to Earth and to the warmth of the desert. I braided her hair and fixed her mind to the glorious battlefields of my youth, the stunning victories and the ****** defeats. I was the hero. A shining beacon of light in the dismal landscape.
I could tell be the way her lip quivered at the end of my story that I had won. Like wrinkled silk clinging to a bedpost, she hung onto every word I said and gazed in awe at the girl who overcame all odds. Victory was mine indeed.

But I take no prisoners.

Carrying her scalp, I left her screaming body in the office, next to the box of tissues and the thrift-store couch, which was still warm from where I had sat.

And I went on to the next therapist, a new story already brewing in my mind.

Your shoulders, sturdy,
hold me, heavy,
I am groggy but awake.

Push at a rock and hope it will move.
You reap what you sow but I did not
plan for your barren lands,
I hadn't thought of the desert,
I have not been able to dream, I have yet to fall asleep.
Watch me fall into the abyss of my own unconscious,  salvaging dollops of conversations we have not had.

Look at you ramble... uneasy, too afraid to let
a comfortable silence sit between us, too insecure
to share anything but emptiness disguised as words.

I did not believe in the power of company,
and their influence.

Now all I can do is stare inertly at the fallow lands of my nightmares
Only to awake, heaving, still heavy, gesticulating wildly,
reaching for familiarity.

I hate this obstinate reality.

We are friends by habit not love.

Changle changle, Chain chain.
Jingle like that loose brain
The sounds of coins, full and dense
Tasting all that decadence.
Inertly, following I not must
allow that gentle heart to rust
The hole, may not of course be true
but it's reality brings
terrible news.
If this book, which it is just that,
is not fiction, but after all, a fact
That is the worst, yes, indeed
For we are all bound by our greed
We must obey, the words, the facts
Those undoubtable, untouchable
unseeable artefacts.
Yes, hell for you. And you. And you.
Heaven for me and those who agree
That some-man-in-the-sky-decided-that-he-wanted-us-to-be
Free?

My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.

I tried to act confidently,
but it came up like a faux bouquet,
presented steadily with bowtie fixed,
yet shoving,
“here!”
“take them- what are you waiting for?”
And no reply.
(And no reply).
And-
Why is it so difficult to be myself?
Do I not love myself?
Is this some sort of congenital disease-
some inertly cyclopean phenomenon-
where I am victim to my own constant surveillance?
Hyper vigilance- or vanity?
Which is worse?
Would that I could break all of the mirrors hanging on all of the walls-
all of the windows with all of their reflecting-
Would that I could kiss myself, feel myself, touch myself, know myself,
then maybe I could know you how to love me.
How to love me?
With that inquiry left unsatisfied,
am I left flitting from void to void?
Though in some spaces I stare into the Quantum Sea and say,
It is but the stuff of me!
And,
I shall never die!
But that is not the same-
it is not the same
to know thyself in a flower
as to know thy hand-
one is weightless,
the other is responsible.

I fear the mirrors.
I want to fluctuate invisible.