This is where she could drip blood
if it could drip
outside of the body,
but she is internal.
Penetration can happen if lead solders
make contact.
On a bluish/gray scale,
she was never meant to be loved,
or touched,
or shot out of a pistol
well below the speed of sound.
A woman wrinkles over her chair,
soaked in religion,
piling God’s children on gravel.
They eat with her disciples
where bread is dry, yet
milk is sweet.
I stand by with clover.
I paint the children green and set them up
as chess pieces.
Confused feet step over boundaries,
but it is her game.
Her weight stomps chicken bones.
Her voice pours like gravy
over our heads, till I put them to sleep,
and the lullaby’s rock me
as I bleach time from my head.
The woman is asleep
in God’s arms, I rest at his feet,
and the children,
in their sleep, sing.
I live with a turtle
in cold corn field rows. He is hard.
Last time we visited a moon together,
he took my pen, his tricky art,
pliable concern caked dirty under
turtle nails.
He has not always been
a beast. Once, he had wings.
He hovered above sandstone.
I thought of his death. Afraid.
He would be ghost treasure feeding
corn field soil.
He was a well-made horse. Gallant.
Reinforced.
I bridled him. Caged him.
The Big Blue Marble called to him
with a voice
of adventure,
of freedom.
But, he was kept.
Trained.
I nailed his shoes to the dirt. One day,
I felt the Earth crumble beneath my
dainty feet.
Earthquakes and Eruptions.
The horse ran free!
I cried for a year,
spent one more in guilt,
then another in admission..
until, one firewater night brought him
back to me. He stood like a horse.
He spoke like a horse.
He drank like a horse.
But, he was not a horse.
His eyes had become chicken neck yellow.
Shifty.
He tried to stand as a horse,
but he startled
and ducked,
tucked himself inside.
A turtle. With a shell.
In a field.
Cold.
Hard.
Taking my pen because he hasn’t any thumbs.
Brown floor cloaked. White flour
trail.
A leader.
A small fridge opens its wide mouth, letting me
greet its cold insides.
A rot banana.
Mucky carrots.
Luggage.
They showed up, under the door frame.
Two men drenched in
charcoal. Carrying meddling
Polaroid.
They captured broken glass,
dirt masking success,
frightened eyebrows.
My own eyes flashing back at them.
Flashing a peculiar
father who dragged my luggage
by his ankles.
The key shouldn’t have worked.
The key should have squawked in the door,
at my pink dress,
at my black heels. But, its entrance was
easy, mandatory.
When I got back to picture frames
and silence, I found
my products of life
in boxes
on a neighboring balcony.
My apologies, I said,
you shouldn’t have been bothered.
And they weren’t.
They would not be bothered
with white powdered jelly doughnuts
or
a girl,
with rotten umbilical cord
wrapped around
her neck in her dreams, every night.
There is a book that you do
not know. Hard bound.
Gummy.
It was a long trip.
I took a machete to its ink soaked
dress, paddled through
its mysterious
sea of
bad clams. But he wrote it.
He with his ego gala hidden
underneath his racy
beard. The claps,
the bouquets of fraud that
come calling
when a new page is written,
sealed.
The rules are boundless, without
architecture or
makeup.
There would have been a beefy,
apple pie house
but
a pig’s pen
stamped itself onto Arch’s A-E.
From the start….
crippled pages held compact in
iron arms.
Dark Horse boasts hands
eager for night hunt, absent
of thought;
of conscience, klepto-twins crawl under
homeless sheets, spider-walking up
discarded legs.
Pretty ladies rub more than stone
members, desperate in search of these…
Yet,
Dark Horse carries its empty rubbers,
mood and flavor
Sardanapalian desires,
weaving away at rotted earth fruit, leaving
spider-silk string
bound
around stiff ankles, legs,
thighs
marrying left to right
until necrophiliac appetite returns.
You’re in my closet again
trying on my heels
coaxing my jeans to shrink
shrink
to just under
nourished
I have a face for you
glued on
golden fish eyes
a sassy little smack
and a painted
pout
for recognition
you wouldn’t know me otherwise
I drank a tube of toothpaste
a bottle of Kracken
and
coerced my female intuition
into
your rough clutch
you pinched
my finger tips
one-by-one
dressing them in frilly little
dresses
then my neck
choked with the devil’s diamonds
you kneel down
lips to my naked knee
a
soft
kiss of approval
I am ready.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 