Blackbird Song

I have let callous hands
unzip my heavy breath,
free me of metal,
cold restraint.

I have talked to wind
chimes short of frost,
of shine, and let
windy hands slap falling
leaves off
their easy limbs.

I have laid in blue bed
skies, covering mortality
with surging white mass;
pillows for eager
eyeballs. I popped each blue ball,
socket clean of collagen,
of cell, blackbirds emerging,
fleeting,
feeding on my sight.

What they must have seen!
What images must be coursing through
silk ebony feathers!
It is, surely, enough to take
a blackbirds
sight,
enough to pluck wispy wings
from a torrid
feathered friend.

I Was Born To A Gray World

I was born to a gray world.
Void of sunlight.
Barricaded by ice.
Hunters have come for me. I watched them
gobble up
sisters, a brother,
and the woman who birthed me.

I stayed, under rocks, under dirt,
for sixteen years. I washed myself
in sin,
couldn’t come clean.
Stained with nights that smothered me
in the devils
chest hairs.

My hair grew to the length of
a woman. Sweeping me
out from
the dirt, standing me on
one foot,
then two.

Then, my breasts grew,
not much larger,
but wiser!

For some time, I lived out
dull
nightmares.
Screaming in sleep.
Silent during the dull day.
Grinding coffee beans
with quiet grips of rage.

I sliced each strand of woman from
my head,
became a man. I cut tears out of my arms
till I forgot how to
cry,
smashed my head heavy till
I forgot
everything else…

except that the world is gray.

My hair has grown back out
to the size of a woman
and my breasts haven’t grown
anything but heavy,
in a heavy body,
in a heavy gray body.

The Loose Hurricane

That fool of a Hurricane came along
wearing her precious
golden wig

her bitch stamp

tempestuous temptress
twirling
spinning
violence through
internal bricks and boards

I am a carpenter
a blood sculptor
The Queen

my masterpiece
in matching
patterns
nailed to the walls

my precious dynasty
garnished with
parallel features
inside and
out

muscles and brawn
My King
mixed with this
destructive
maniacal
windstorm

she rushed him
in her
giant waves

into her vast Ocean
her wet white body

then ripped and yanked
at my prized
creation
jerking
wrenching
until defeat ambushed
her
from behind

she resigned

and I was left
with my masterpiece
to clear the clutter
the debris

watching the Ocean for the
return of
my King.

 

 

I Will Not Be Fictional

I am skin,
bones, and
two toned cheeks.
I reek of issues, baggage and
distance.

Walk a mile –
can’t find me.  No mile
could. “While
you are looking, could you
grab me a latte? Double shots?
Thanks!”

I found
a story, a long time ago. It carried on and on and on. Redundant. It nearly drove me insane! Then, one day, the story changed! I think I was in shock. So, I walked miles and miles away.
The story couldn’t find me and I didn’t want it to. I have no use for stories; real or imagined!!

A boy came along and he
started writing, sketching words and illustrations in a binder.
He had longing in his eyes as he
sat under a hot, burning lamp. But, the
poor fool kept on writing.

He told me what he imagined
and hoped he could create.
Well…I listened and I smiled and
approved of his story. But he had the damn characters all wrong!!

I told him of my loathe for stories and how I may
regurgetate my lunch if he tried to write me in it.
He sulked, momentarily, but he went on his way. I suppose he writes in a new character
to take my place.
All the better for me.

I am skin,
bones, and it might be because of all the stories
that make me regurgetate my lunch.