Lemons Rinds and Jack

milky-way-923801_1280
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. 

Disease

If it was fire, I would be burned across my liver.
If it was water, I would be floating belly-up one hundred miles down stream.
If it was a daydream, I would have plummeted from the heaven’s and crushed by heavy streets below.

I’ve always known the thick romance of being lost, deep in black brain jungles, where tigers eat tigers to build their own stripes.

My birth brought it. It was my placenta. We were strong together and now I am separated from eternity.

Skull Crushed

He mounts himself before me
un-zips his stiff skin,
wraps his violent arms around me – to crush

against his ribs. I brush his chest,
boiling veins coil through me,
eyes bulge from my head.

His affection is silent. I see through
muscles and bone – his frail components.
They cannot move. He refuses.

I lay my soft nature over his void.
He is unaware. His nourishment is silent.
He moans. I am starved.

He is heavy in hand and heart, dangles his love on a brick,
then hits me with it. I swell – with thirst,
hungry for his deep devotion,

for his full, dark desire to tie me to him,
vein to vein,
lung to lung,
bone to bone

forever.

The Accident

Embarrassment tugs his eyes to the
left, cradling his infant courage.
He is new skin – crawling
for Jesus – drowning
in sin.

My own infant, white lipped,
sleeps like a giant next
to my hip. My blood
is metallic lead
leaking out.

The scent of iron is dark and heavy.
Mary cycles through every
woman, he reminds me.
I know. Serpents
slither – then
go.

He is the color of silence – naked eyes
following mine, stalking my quiet
like prey. His sharp honesty
brings deep claw marks
across my chest. I
still beat
life. His eyes lift,

hungry. My flesh is real,
sincerity exposed. He prays over
me, Jesus take this pain.
It was an accident, he is just.

The Bone Yard

I fold my dirty body next to the sun as it falls to sleep across a boneyard.

Our Daughters sleep in there, clinging on to life and on to death.
They strip down to breast and bone for swine,
gnawing on their own skeletons for some Great Man to tame them.

They play in ash playgrounds, burnt down by thieving snakes of virginity.
Our hands can do nothing.
Our Book does nothing.

Our Sons are bound, shackled by veins to elusion.
They strain, barefoot in the desert where demons build their muscles on doubt and hesitation.
Fear is a great interruption to the infant shadows that remain young nuisances
until trepidation grips its claws around their hollow shoulders and carry them away.

And, as the boneyard grows next to me. I lay, with burnt wings, in a chill that never dies.

Morning Greets Me

Each morning greets me differently;
she kisses my cheek for love, or
spits down my throat for some other reason.
I used to hate her obnoxious light.
When I was a child I threw sticks
at her and swore I would do myself
in before she could. I made rope from vines
that her sun rays grew. I gathered
poison that lived on her sickly Earth
and piled them next to my bare toes
as they dug deep through the planets
coarse skin.
I think I sat in this spot, with my back toward
her for years on top of years.
She burned and blistered through my anger,
but I couldn’t see.

Until, one morning, my daughter greeted me,
sat softly next to my feet and reached deep into
the pile of poison
that I’d been saving for me.

that my lips may part for lava

winds sail slow
arriving with difficulty
to confession

I speak against another
back turned
burned by sun light

I am familiar
with the dark –
with poison
with automatic disappointment

that my lips may
part for lava
but not for pardon

and I sail slow over
raging seas
arriving with difficulty
to confession

where familiar darkness
speaks mostly
about me

The Desert Is Infected

The cold Earth is opening.
The desert is infected.

Starving cacti throb with hunger;
the land sweats poverty through
cracks in the street.

Ants are in a glass jar.
I gather them,
preach to them;
let them pray in the hot sun.
Then, I kneel as one of
God’s knights
and slaughter each with a slow dime.

Money is priceless.
So is time.
The desert is infected.

The Only Hands I Want To Know

hold on, for dear
life, hold on,

holds on, tight
grip, white knuckles,
ripping my flimsy body
from the sea.

We are ballet together.
Strict, and flexible.
The tragedy of the sea
drips from my fingertips;
he twirls death out of me.

For years, I drifted on dead logs,
raging against a hateful water,
dipping my hands in to remember

the violent debris, floating barely
above surface.
He disagrees.

He only saw a body dance perfectly
ill-tempered, diving into
the boiling veins of the world.
His hands reached in,
not to pull me from death,
not to release me from dangerous
waves that swallowed me in
then spit me back out,
but to dance
a perfect dance
on dry desert land.

Book Update

Hey everyone.

Just wanted to share with everyone that a small collection of my work is expected to be available in May!! I’m super excited.
Keep a watchful eye. I’ll have links up as soon as it’s available and will keep updates on facebook and twitter!

 

XOXOXO ~ MM