My Mad Voyage

Were you, yourself, a stranger with no clear account of his dying?
An accident crowned that day.
A ticket arrived, golden and hollow,
at his bedside. 

He laughed.
He board a ship in the morning
that carried no heartbeat
or skin.

I think this is all we talk about.
A mad voyage where listeners were
not, until now.

And were we strange to his fable, with his legs up on the couch?
I should say to him, I am not.
There are two bodies I know,
inside and out.
I fasten their heads together in knots around my chest

on my own mad voyage that carries no heart,
or beat,
or spirit
that is strange to his hand on my shoulder, softly at rest from the world.

Hear You Me

Here is something pretty for my followers today. If you’re feeling sad, grateful, hopeful, or wanting….XOXO ~ MM

Morning Greets Me

Each morning greets me differently;
she kisses my cheek for love, or
spits down my throat for some other reason.
I used to hate her obnoxious light.
When I was a child I threw sticks
at her and swore I would do myself
in before she could. I made rope from vines
that her sun rays grew. I gathered
poison that lived on her sickly Earth
and piled them next to my bare toes
as they dug deep through the planets
coarse skin.
I think I sat in this spot, with my back toward
her for years on top of years.
She burned and blistered through my anger,
but I couldn’t see.

Until, one morning, my daughter greeted me,
sat softly next to my feet and reached deep into
the pile of poison
that I’d been saving for me.

Stones

Stone clouds tell her story.

Today was dry before grey stomped
over head.

I wish I was her. She reminds me

how to cry like my pupils are perfect moons,
ten thousand drops on the prick
of every sharp edge .

She shapes me,
she wraps me in her moisture
when I am filth, then leaves.

I forget. I fly around memory
and time like
it still exists,

like one floor leads to
the next floor,

like today isn’t meant to say anything,
I hope

for silence underwater,
my big head under
water
breathing out every last danger

until my old body is
roaring grey stone,
floating in over head,
reminding someone to fly around
memories
and time
like they still exist.

Oh, Poor House

This old house,
this old skeleton home
stands as cold as a gravestone.

I once stood warm in the middle,
on soft ground,
on proud carpet
and let the seams out,
unravelling my solid foundation.

My blood didn’t mix well.
It was dry gin,
a steady confrontation
within.

These old thoughts,
these moldy walls,
we’ve sunk deep.
It hasn’t slept since I left.
I chose to be deaf.

I chose this aloneness,
a silent voice sipping on charcoal,
dreaming about a house
that once was a home.

Oh, poor house.
Your empty threshold is tempting but,
now I know,
I have shed you,
and my boiling red blood has
calmed to blue.

I do not miss you.

Good Bye

I woke up in a puddle with his memory
wrapped around me. The angels were heavy tonight.
I welcomed him back from the dead tonight,
but he did not welcome life.

He must have been tossed down from Heaven,
after riding Angels bare-back. His jaw was clasped tight,
reminding me of December when the snow fell so
hard that it dug into the backs
of the trigger happy.

We watched death fall out together, a few flights
up, before he dropped the dog on his tail.
Life must remind him of amputation now.

He took me to his rickety, flimsy boyhood.
I scolded him about the thin boards
nailed together clumsily,
and told him that this was not a safe place to be.
He protested it’s security.

He never asked for his old things, but I had them.
They were treasures.
Old t-shirts, books, jewelry. My frustrated fingers
rummaged through
everything that he could have come back for.
But, he did not want.

I told him, “do you know what it is going to do
to me if you die again?”, then I realized that he did not breathe,
or pulsate, or belong…

my eyes began to flood, and then I heard a voice,
from silence,
from life,
from inside…

“Oh!  This is her saying good-bye!”

Dinner With The Snake

Dammit! I’ve run out of talent.
My shoulder blades went with the
postman. He took the world
out,
to a yellow and green Earth.
Before he went,
he dusted my back, made everything possible.

So, I went, then,
to the bags and the boxes. I unzipped,
ripped,
tore in
to avoidance, packaged away
in the belly of a red snake.

Before I sliced him through his
happily ever after, I built a
midnight picnic
on a grease infused concrete.
We drank everything
red,
light,
collected.

We had beautiful words
through midnight and on
till dawn. The snake rolled
his yellow eyes to the back of his throat,
swallowing
any chance he may have had to strike back.

I leaned in with quick penetration,
slitting
the long, frail line of happiness

then,

misery was back. And with it….brilliance!

Statue

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.

That She Is

He carries his Sylph
one flight up, further
than his dream had
landscaped, by
seams and stitches,

a creation grows.
Creator, with his silver air
occupant, of matter, of time.

The Sylph snags
arid scaffolding on the way; scolding
brazen bricks, wrapping
sick elapsed silk strands
around
lifeless tower necks.

Her languid limbs stretch,
every catch ripping her
silver lures, bragging
that she is,
that she is!

And he climbs above
architecture; speaks
of the slight
that she is,
that she is!

And he climbs above weight,
above birth,
above death….

silk strands unravel
as he speaks,
of love,
of life,
of broken roads ago

as silk strands go
so do apologies,
and he speaks of milk and water,
white rice,
voids…

that she is,
that she is!
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Painted Lady

From the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,

where productions
remain silent but still produce,

where every rehearsed act
plays on, as if
unrehearsed.

Nobody would know the difference unless
they were watching
from the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,

the place that the universe bends for,
dances for,
multiplies for.

Once, a painted woman sat upon
the tower,
supreme and hungry,
watching
different casts perform…

her muse!

She was born with a gift.
An Eye!
A Wandering Eye!
At her command, her left eye would jump
out of its socket
on hunt
as the hungry painted woman
wished.

The Eye knew not the exact
silage, but
there were markings,
specifics, that the Eye knew to watch for.

The painted woman waited,
high in the clouds,
imposing on conversation
between wind
and
weather….
waiting.

Soon, her Wandering Eye would
return
with her meal –

soldiers, fighters,
carpenters,
shaman,

each had a purpose.

The painted woman would accept her
prey, swallowing them completely
in to
herself,
writhing them in and out of consumption,
pulling them deep into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!

She touched
and kissed
and drooled on
each of their gifts
using each
as her very own until
she was
spent.

Then, she would take her lust-probing eye and
retire,
leaving nothing of
her pillage behind!!

A snake,
overflowing
with lasciviousness!

One day, the brushed lady
was brought a tender
slice of
musician, with sad,
blue diamonds sparkling so bright
that when she saw her reflection
in them,
her left gift, was
immediately calcified,
a vegetable!
Useless!

She barely noticed!

They stood together at the tip-top
of the towering fortress,
oblivious to
acts,
actors,
and
actresses.

All the muse she needed stood
beside her, with a box of suffering chocolates
and rust roses,

begging
her
for consumption! On his knees he
pleaded for
use!

Baffled by his strange request, she conformed to
habit.

The painted woman accepted her
prey, swallowing him completely
in,
writhing his body in and out of her consumption,
pulling him deep, deeper into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!

She touched his gifts,
gently kissed his gifts
caressed each gift as if it were her own
until
the bewitching young
musician was spent, sleeping inside her body.

This had never happened before.
She knew “withdraw”
not “succumb”.
How dare he retire without her!
Leaving her here,
alone,
on the tip-top of a towering
fortress without
her only friend,

her tool!
She panicked when the script
started
in the world below. Its silence
sounded different
somehow.
Heartsick.

At that moment, the lady,
standing at the tip-top of the towering fortress
flung herself
from the security of the towers’ height,
diving to join
the world below!