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.
Confession from Heaven
as you can see
we have potential
although hearts burst out in tears,
locked behind bars, in chains,
against a will of their own,
we carry every blink used
to wipe away the pain,
we stand guard when the Earth
shakes underneath feet full of breath
breathe easy
we have potential
we have not lost the sunlight
of yesterday,
or the smell of a growing world
childhood kisses are fresh on our
souls
we have not passed
we are not the past
we are your honest future
waiting
for our bound hearts
to hold each other
once again.
He swims like a whale,
through life,
inflated,
blubbered up from pomposity.
He is all.
He creates territory
and torture.
I am followed.
To the outskirts, I dream –
puffed up on Winter
drugs, countered
by a pulse
that refuses to let go.
All the while, He is made,
poaching my land,
harvesting my seed….
and then they say it’s HIS plan,
so HE takes it all from ME?….
The season will change again,
as seasons often do,
and I will settle firm
inside the Earth,
where He will never follow.
Blue brick stone eyes,
like four leaves, I am in luck.
Liquid doesn’t drip from rock.
Not all skin is the same.
Some grow into cat-o-nine tail,
but you…
you douse poison like a God.
I am witness,
without religion,
without faith,
without hope,
out of the blue,
brick stone eyes
came to me
an old idea –
a different skin
growing on me.
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.
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!
Limp beauty drops like spiders from
silk; stars fall to their knees.
Now you understand?
My little kiss!
My little wish for after-flowers
of genocide; lush with knowing
and innocence.
Not thankless, no!
Not ignorant as much as the
narrow sister that floats
over blue bells every six years or so.
Just simple, and simply a
slow desire for Gratitude.
I spend a thousand blinks on old memories.
Each taste like cocaine
broken teeth, pressing
truth against my cheek, a cold shock
like this one –
crying on the beach, sleeping in empty sea shells.
My mother eats her hands,
choking on emptiness,
on regret – I understand,
then –
fireflies above my nose.
Bathing with my naked sisters,
collecting our shadows full
of sea water – and with a rush of the moon
a tip of years comes rushing back
and I choke, not on emptiness
but on regret, and I understand
then –
it’s the same sun that passed away,
roasting flames with me on
Sunday; and what does He do?
He moves.
Circling eternity and afterlife.
Look North!
Kochab and Mizar!
This is the undead; the perfect destination.
The Sky Goddess swells at Gemini then births the Sun God in the MilkyWay.
Spring devours him
at Winter he is reborn.
We will join the Northern Sky
when it is our time.
The Ghost Kings will consume
our bodies, our divine
will leave to await the sweet smell of Winter.
We will circle eternity;
the perfect destination.
Mappa mundi. On my back I
sleep without mountains, or oceans,
or broken continents drifting off
in search for more.
Birds turn origami and
I am left with an echo.
Somewhere between maple rain
and God’s sweet thumb I broke
the rules.
Sand has lost all reason.
Sun has lost its meaning.
Direction is meant for the breathing…
So is matter.
Mappa mundi. Inside
I am a universe. The eye of God, on my
back, giving birth to angels with
white wings of clouds.
Thunder claps in approval
while I whistle an old echo
to the vast dark matter
that prays for existence.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 