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.
If we could put it to music
it would be your fingers
on my fine tunes,
my lyrics
finding you
in chords that could not exist
before this night.
We choose staying in,
underneath a thick haze
of purple and green.
Your eyes try to match me;
our deepest rhythms
sinking,
flowing,
dancing
naturally. We slip back –
your tongue laced with black
magic –
and I,
knee deep in daydream,
wrapped up in
this dimension,
several chords playing,
all of them in key.
Gripping to the cadence,
dripping with luxury,
we summon our past lives
we consult the angels
of mercy
and forgive every sinner
who ever has sinned.
This is our music.
Saturday night flat –
my bottle of Jack,
your smoke gliding
down my deep
throat
Like clockwork
here we go.
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.
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.
After the devil walked out,
I set the house on fire.
A cleansing.
I went North to see the See-er.
She agreed with me.
We talked about herbs and tea
and the guns of history.
My dad stepped in as if he was
there all along. I tried not to,
but the Tulips were in full bloom.
The honey bees called me
by a given name.
I am on separation from myself,
and as ghosts came and went,
I left my silhouette behind.
I joined a rainy city for a brick
talk, but we spoke nothing.
The See-er followed me with a snap.
I jumped back to her possibility.
She meant to cut it at the stem
but I got more than usual,
and the Tulips changed color, over and over.
And during the middle of all Of this,
I found what she grew.
Hope.
If you have ever bit the skin
of an orange, lifting
flesh from flesh,
life from life,
you can come with me.
If you have ever sat at the wake
of death, eye-to-eye with the
giver and, or, the taker,
you can come with me.
If you have ever put your body to rest
under a sky full of the blackest of
widows,
then come with me, please.
If you have ever coasted over a
thousand scissors cutting
every corner of every thought,
then please, come.
If you have ever melted into
the sun, begging to be rooted
into the eclipse,
If you have ever swallowed a pearl,
hoping to be turned into gold
then come with me.
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.
You who are with me,
who ache with me, please,
lay still, hold your breathing –
we are sinking
we sink,
beneath wings of bad mothers,
through sad voices of home
our dead limbs fall off,
our bones sleep on their own.
You who are with me,
who are silent at night,
who separate stars, who burn with out light
hold on
hold on
to the hands of these words
we are sinking
we sink
through this very dry Earth.
God isn’t softening,
we are starved by disease,
by darkness, by deepness
of the valley’s between us.
You who are with me,
who ache life away, lay still,
hold your breathing,
hold on to your life,
we are sinking
we sink
away with the night!
Oh, dear Satan, your delicious
merchandise finds me
tender.
I am a raw sunflower gasping for
clean air, for rare light
to open my thin arms
and feed my beginning.
I could be a generous gift,
a miracle fragrance in the breeze
of a season,
but I was stomped deep
in the Earth, fed on by worms
before I knew how to dream.
When dreams slipped in to my feeble
stem, they were
manipulated, filling my roots with
poison.
Now, I sleep with deadly seeds
growing in my brain, too weak to survive
cold seasons,
surrendering to dark demons, until
spring brings back
the warm light of hope.
The music, with sharp tongues and daggers, presses hard against me.
I have been swinging from lyrical ropes
for days. If it wasn’t for guilt!
If it wasn’t for the time I have spent
drinking cups full of guilt, with guilt, for guilt.
Guilt raises dark hands that curve into
the shoulders of undeserving men and women.
My stomach tosses me over myself
for the thirtieth time today!
I can remember all of the first times that
I laid myself down with fire, judging
the length of my hair,
or the color of my skin,
or the shape of my body.
Do you believe me?
Do you believe that I spend time
tying myself up against poisonous walls,
waiting for a soft heart to come walking in,
6 feet tall,
with a blade meant only to save me?
Do you believe that?
No matter!
It is true.
I expected you and you and you!
But, not today.
Today, I fold myself over in two.
Half of me has my hands and my voice.
The other half is walking away with my feet and
my womanhood.
I do not know which half to venture off with,
so I sit here,
on this blue couch that is not, and never will be
something that I can call mine.
I sit, without myself, here.
I have branched out, and, in the same moment,
left myself behind.
Do you believe me?
Do you believe that a girl as leathery as me
could leave without herself, or
let herself go, for that matter?
Do you believe that?
It doesn’t matter.
Not now. Not when I sit on guilt’s lap, flirting
with her for approval. Not when
I tie myself down to her, to her and this soft, blue
couch.
What matters now, is the bacon and eggs that I will make her
for breakfast. What matters now,
is the laundry in the little room,
the showers that need to be scrubbed,
and the fact that
I am still tied up here, to these poisonous walls.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 