Hourglass

Separating skin from a tree
is a faint task, like
twisting glass back to sand.

Long, narrow veins exposed to chaos,
leave their limbs. I climb inside
them for hydration.

I’m a fish, shallow in water,
borrowing lungs from
a human.

Don’t make it glacial,
blue is the true color.
It is royal.
It is blood.
I am oxygen and it feels good!

My husband left me sweltering
during the ripe moon. I grew
ripe, too; a full cherry
hunger in a bottle
of Gin.

Then this tree, he’s latched on
to me. I pour my fingernails
in. He knows his strength
matches me tightly.
We seize together on Earth’s early
tremor, and just as I start to peel,
layer by layer,

his exposed veins melt into
venom, he turns me,
my swift hourglass
resets, twisting sand
back into glass.

Jupiter Rises

Uncharted territory! Galilean moons
orbit, satisfied by discovery.
Jupiter waits for your sounds,
do you hear her calling?

She dreams of your sleep,
cracked by early morning light,
pink lips opening wide,
new trees cherried by blossom

Seasons have changed.
Her great red storm hovers
like a tailed boa.
You could lay on her naked thoughts
or wear her like a shadow.

She waits, an elliptical path away,
for your sun to rise steady
on her moon.
Wake up!
Do you hear her call for you?

One Sweet Gulp

quick bolt tight lightning
grip, thigh deep
in thick sand

south landing mound
in palm of your hand
hot air

tumbles over bare
back, raw hide lash
prints where cougars
sit

Black panther, I pray
for a taste
of your thread,
silk lessons spinning
deep under
skin

pricked thorns leak
wildly like
we

a gesture
a kiss
a swift, single move

then tongue to tongue
a battle for the best
pulse over pulse
one
sweet
gulp

Departure

Some eyes open like black holes,
gravitationally throwing memorial stones through a moment,

letting time break a silence that lingers in every muscle,
every finger tip
for a soft crash of acknowledgment.

Other eyes move like flat lines and we must guess. Ache drips from our palms like candle wax, hot with the stench of regret
and blame.

I remember the first taste of his
time, brutal pine in November’s icy driveway. I know his eyes opened
to our flavor together,

but now he walks in such a quick
rush; as if the Earth might split without eating him up

and he talks,
like voices do
when they should,

but not one blink wrinkles,
or speaks,
or loves.

Sagittarius A

Ten thousand light years from Orion’s Arm,
my eye is naked and
distinguished. Your small satellite orbits
my dark regions with aim.

I am uninhabitable with my gas,
and dust, and hot stars
spiraling in mass distribution.
Call me Sagittarius A….

and I will call you instable,
with your fictional planets
swaying with indefinite motion,

your thick Dwarf Elliptical
cancels out my Galaxy
over and
over again.

people have lost

summer drips off walls and
coats black roads
we are melting into tomorrow

today was nailed and hammered by a carpenter with
a golden voice
It’s blurry, but I see it

people have lost livers and kidneys
and legs
and pets
and children

and I am sad for them, I am

from under a rock
from the depths of the Pacific
from unknown planets

where I am carried by a carpenter and His golden voice

There Is One Song

There is a song, just one,
that brings him to me.
It rolls in slowly,
a drum beats lowly,
a repetitive wave that wraps
his thick arms around me,

piano keys move softly, light
fingers that grip my arms, pulling
me on to his warm chest.

She raises her golden voice to
dim candle light, our bodies braided
in shadow on his impenetrable walls.

My heart beats in my toes,
my fingertips,
I am nothing but pulse as he grazes
me with his full lips,

the piano keys surge,
the drums urge him to sink deep
within me,

her voice becomes the  angel of depth.
I shed my skin before him, an offering;
begging him to belong
to the music forever.

My heart beat follows
his fingertips outlining my sleek design,
my breath, taken by his touch,
the piano drips between my thighs,
his blue eyes recite the sky,
his honest promise.

The drum beats slow,
the piano keys gather his warm
body, his lips, his touch and
leave me alone with all the words I
want to say,

but my voice cannot reach over this song.

And Their Colour

I see how he boils
I see his skin blistered and peeling
at the surface, and
I see what lies beneath.

I couldn’t help it, his voice started out whimsy and soon turned grey.
I searched for colour, for exposure, for sound;
in every wrinkle,
in every scar I searched, but they grew dull
and duller, still.

There is only one way at a time like this,
for me, just one way.
I carved a switch, long and thin,
kissed it from tip to tip,
dipped it in ferocious honesty
and laid it upon him.

Every sharp went unacknowledged, ignorance shaded
his wounds, so I left them.
He came back for another round and
I smacked him with truth,
defiance and with truth,
and he did not believe me.
So, I left.

Then, he came back and I swat him again.
I welted and blistered his skin, this
time colour arose.
Red infection swelled at the lacerated sites,
and he boiled.
I listened to his blood and his voice boil,
and his skin gash and then blister,
but before all this
I saw what hid beneath.

Now, I stand in front of my mirror,
where he thinks my reflection is
hollow and bare,
and I see all of my wrinkles and scars
and where they came from
and that they will always be

but with their colour,
and their colour,
and their colour!

Allegiance To The Line Juicer

He is wired for
sour fruit dessert, weaving black and blue
cables  through his heart.

A stripper and his peach syndrome
parted, in him, desire from fear.
He lost.

Yet,
he can swallow rose petals better
than any absorbent
and
he steps more lucent than any
cloud walker…

I have pledged allegiance to his hands,
his hair,
his stubble shadow.
I demand his tongue
his touch,
his exchange;

where his voice spreads thick,
taste enhances,
where his deluxe firewater is served,
servants dance,
where his skin sheds to brace life,
I kneel.

If God cannot dampen my dry, callous skin,
maybe this sad Electrician can.

 

s2

The Stew…Part 2

Oh My! They have been stitched back.
All my pieces have
been reassembled. It must have
been when the cooking
wine drove me to
blackness.

I was lying in a knot
in front of the oven, where
my stew had been cooking. I left, from
the kitchen, into this blackness.
When I awoke,
my pieces were positioned back to
their former posts!

They are not what they used to be, not
nearly as attractive. Nobody else would
ever choose these parts! But,
they are perfect to me! Exactly how I want them!
I’m still hurting, the pain is jabbing – bulging in and out
at the stitiches.

I do not mind though. For now, I scream, I writhe in
agony, I attempt sleep in discomfort. It will fade though and My pieces will
never work how they used to.