Where Dead Mice Sleep

Bring your church to the key – back rooms –
chimney sweep – flushed with soot –
black like cats – deep in Winter sleep.

Bring your arm to my ball – and chain
me up – downstairs – I
am a slave

to black waves of adultery –
and let’s not leave out the China, please? – In
the hutch, where dead mice sleep.

Take me to your temple – here, now go
to sleep – shackled to me –
wrapped in spite –
or luxury.

I won’t drop or swallow – your metal is safe
against my chest – One of us
is naked on the inside –

Christ would like how we make it here –
every Winter –
while the cats let the mice sleep.

Doctor, Tell Me

I am going to be. Here,
in a sticky womb,
a living room made for
madness; a sautéed fanciness.

The feast is being set,
just above the chandelier,
they call me by number,
my tattooed slumber calls.

White isn’t always padded
or strapped. Most likely
it only surrounds
the dark blue ring
around the sunburst I look at.

I think I am a painting.
Rembrandt is too gross, but
Picasso, he is enough mystery
to create me.
Half of me sprawls across the cold,
I wait for night-watch to
twist me back to form.

The other girl squats in the corner.
I smell feces and antifreeze.
Do I dream? Can I dissect the fumes of
the dead?
Her charred body crawls toward me,
she removes her teeth.
Everything glitters like a shadow.

Then, I am here. In the morning.
It isn’t the sun that tells me,
but the number, tattooed to
my skull.

Doctor, tell me, has Picasso gone home?

The Sweeper

7:45 – no later than Dawn,
Aruna Rusted to the ground.

All that Matters,
the White and Gray,
were taken.

The Sweeper takes air with
Chain Links.

The Floor must know more.
The Tiles aren’t Talking.

Poor Girl is Brain Blinded.

The Sod is in hiding,
swept somewhere
under the streets –
where Poor Aruna

Forever Sleeps.

*Please share this post and give the deserved attention to the story of Aruna Shanbaug, who had much of her story hidden “under the instructions of the Dean of KEM, Dr. Deshpande, perhaps to prevent Shanbaug from being socially rejected or to avoid effects on her impending marriage.”(Wikipedia) Everyone should know her story!

To That

inch of time spent over the sea,

dragging your dead body back
from the sharks I fed you to.

There should be enough salt
to drown in. Now that is something
you don’t hear of!
But, I have heard of Buddha,
and Ghandi,
and what great advice for the
blonde girls in white dresses,
not scratched by hands of
light drinking, or hard gunfire;
the girls untouched by
living a dead life, waking under floorboards
built by their mothers.

Your heavy photograph burns to
my tongue. I spit. I curse you out
of your newly dried grave.
I am ecstatic for your corpse,
it grows on me like tough leather.

Now for her.
I carry a monsoon to her driveway.
She is lit up. A bright pumpkin
ripened for plummet.
She dresses in honeysuckle,
and flickers like whiskey.
I haven’t thought of her name,
she is black as a canvas; a new galaxy
before energy matters.
If her heart happens to
do that, I will carve it out.

I will take it back to July in my teeth
where the desert is waiting for me,
it’s Queen.

Where Did Everybody Go

There! I changed it!
Now let’s go back to options and
change it to “hard”.

I cheated.
Don’t tell anybody.

(If the path is blocked, you’ll
need to find a way to clear it.)

So, basically the path is blocked.

I need backup.
Where did you go?
Put me down…I’m making fire.

No! Please??
Where did the other guy go?
Is he dead?
Put me down….

“sweeping the floor with his body
la la la la la…

i’m sweeping the floor with your booody”

Cheated!