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.
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.
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.
I am laying in wet cement, gray
mud
blanket gobbling up my plague.
It is thick like me,
like the twenty years of
plaster inside.
Everything is hardening.
Kidney.
Liver.
Fallopian Tubes.
Guts.
Heart.
I have been treated like a statue.
It isn’t hard to
be still,
motionless. Erect.
Allowing curious wanderers to
make up my background,
my story.
A man brought oranges
to paint
me with. He was a soft liquid.
I was set to stone.
He sliced his moist fruit,
dripping
sweet citrus over my rough skin, melting
my rind.
Away, away I went with delicate fruit.
A new sculpture.
A beautiful, fluid seed.
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