in a heavy fog I am swallowed
washed out of my skin
peeled at every layer
any doctor could take a bite
chart my territory in a book
mark me for my subjects
and when they are through
sertraline is waiting
she is gray
she is blue
she matches me in mood
and I
treat her better
than strawberry fields
dandelions
honeysuckle
her ability is greater
her strength is true
and when I take her
I am washed away
washed away
a different kind of new
Photo by Jacob Mejicanos on UnsplashI am not a rule or a thumb
I am after the math changes
like when he comes and then leaves
on the black pavement, they don’t move –
they are yellow and dead
and glued by storm
without lightning, I cannot burn
without worship, I am empty
words do not matter
but I want them all
the words
the matter
the exalt
If I bleed out – don’t scream at me
for doing it wrong
in here
oxygen has stopped moving
a body is melting over a dream
that is alive and well
an intention
blackwater
we intertwine like parasites
we love like decay
i could be convinced to move out of here
but every moon begs for this same
consistency
and I am no moon
it’s just like a gunshot
these hot words in my head that force
blood to move
for once I am not tar
and the girl on the back of this page
she is certain
I will find a way
she sings it “goes on and on”
and it will
If I don’t stop it myself
talk about orchard red petals on wood tables
plate upon each other
soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am
just buried in wallpaper
trapped in a past life
guessing on about oil in still life canvas
on a second thought my eyes shift
to roll back
and he slithers up toward my lips
because if he could he wouldn’t exist
yet here we begin
just two pieces of black ice
melting pastels into sunset
and if we could get it back together
from memory – where it is what it was –
we would pluck tiny pellets from
pomegranates in winter
for juicing
individually
without each other
I’ve settled on darkness. Where some cluster of lonely iris might climb through my tear ducts for solace, i empty space and time.
She is on her way, like last years’ frost bite she brings her shards of cold. One year, I begged her not to go but some things are not always.
Oh, she is constant. In her gray dress of mist and seasonal affection, she blends in with reality but time doesn’t stop for anything.
Once her smoke blows over capped mountain tops, I turn away from him, wrinkled from exhaustion. This effort, this tremendous light encompassing mine – I am minimal.
Nothing.
It will always be walking through tough cement, lemon rinds and jack-one swift sailor high on a Black Sea
drifting for eternity, fighting off starvation, making friends with an idea.
Love is not sold on silent blue moons or Ancient Greek mistresses riding them bareback
but deep inside a reflection, an abbreviated determination that divides calm nights.
I watch you pray for those hours. God isn’t listening;
He is creating.
it doesn’t matter that she is blank
to you
i see her
scribbled in fine
point
so many want her
temptation
I am not alone
in this I have thought
about her since
childhood
so many have had her
some by accident
or not – no matter –
when she craves
a taste of you
she will have you
some do not want her
cold caress
stealing their breath
but others – like me
flirt with her heavy
want
zero our rifles
just enough
to taste silver
before
not the kind you think of
when the word presents itself
there hasn’t been gifts
or flowers
or cakes
no declarations of love
I am veiled in quicksand
my ankles stolen
right from underneath me
A preacher speaking “blah, blah, blah, God” ….
and all that stuff
my dear family and friends
gathered around me
laughing
a single dove laying on
an altar
plugged into oxygen
plastic wrapped for perfection
suffocating
the caterer
with the smile of a thousand devils
reminds me to pay my bill
tonight we roast the dove
Bring your church to the key – back rooms –
chimney sweep – flushed with soot –
black like cats – deep in Winter sleep.
Bring your arm to my ball – and chain
me up – downstairs – I
am a slave
to black waves of adultery –
and let’s not leave out the China, please? – In
the hutch, where dead mice sleep.
Take me to your temple – here, now go
to sleep – shackled to me –
wrapped in spite –
or luxury.
I won’t drop or swallow – your metal is safe
against my chest – One of us
is naked on the inside –
Christ would like how we make it here –
every Winter –
while the cats let the mice sleep.
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