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
out there
rain lives
and breathes
and falls asleep
the way I want to
instead
I stay
eat cactus
fry worms on black top
undress for men
I don’t want
touch
every
square
inch
like its you
Sounds like you are lost
right behind where you are almost are
What are you doing here?
Swiping what I have to say about that?
It is I,
making sure that no thieves take the golden honey
from the hives.
We all are natural friends to befriend
the bees, but you have lost your way.
On the way, your treasure melts
away into a way to let go.
You’re almost there, save me!
Honey for everybody!
I hope I never see another world
covered in seagulls.
The bees are enough for me.
Little golden girl
you are perfect
in your comb
waiting for the right time to
find your way to where you almost
can be.
Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.
Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.
Welcome home, a strawberry plant
grows out back
for you, but it
has twisted to fingernails
to scratch away the bugs.
It has a heart, ready for transplant.
I promised to die,
I admit, I’m in the habit,
but it just sat in one spot,
sucking on water cells
reminding me what it
would feel like to overheat.
Now you are here, hiding in
the desert, my fruit not fertile
enough for you
to eat.
So, you say it’s the center of time,
one hand holds it,
the other says good-bye.
One story
up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I wait.
I watch oxygen expand
into greatness.
Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.
God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.
One story
below me, kids are
throwing stones.
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.
When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
the crickets.
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
rename me.
I am going to be. Here,
in a sticky womb,
a living room made for
madness; a sautéed fanciness.
The feast is being set,
just above the chandelier,
they call me by number,
my tattooed slumber calls.
White isn’t always padded
or strapped. Most likely
it only surrounds
the dark blue ring
around the sunburst I look at.
I think I am a painting.
Rembrandt is too gross, but
Picasso, he is enough mystery
to create me.
Half of me sprawls across the cold,
I wait for night-watch to
twist me back to form.
The other girl squats in the corner.
I smell feces and antifreeze.
Do I dream? Can I dissect the fumes of
the dead?
Her charred body crawls toward me,
she removes her teeth.
Everything glitters like a shadow.
Then, I am here. In the morning.
It isn’t the sun that tells me,
but the number, tattooed to
my skull.
Doctor, tell me, has Picasso gone home?
He never went out and shot someone.
When he gets hot, he crumbles like
dry wall.
Yeah the petals come off, but it’s not
his bullet. His bullet passes through
everything but glass.
At that point, his nerve is out of his mind.
He runs on instinct.
I look at it as reasoning.
He doesn’t want it to fragment.
It’s not effective, but
if I have a BB Gun that looks like a 45
and I point it between his eyes,
I’ll make him better than what’s out there.
To speak up on Sunday
when religion strikes like
the back of a hand
would be a sin. To question
a written truth bound
by message and baggaged with
fear
would be unthinkable.
But I do! But I do!
I let those words of hymn drain
slow down my throat,
digesting each He and Him,
and I am not the same size
as my companions in these walls.
I am unworthy.
I am faithless in my tongue
because I cannot taste it.
But I do! But I do!
I am full of confession, I swallow them
like bone slivers after the fasting.
My prayer is splintered by
knees on the floor.
My Dear God, humble me more!
maggiemaeijustsaythis 