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two honey bees scribble
across Rupi’s milk
her tragic black paperback
blooms

on a blank kitchenette
empty plastic cup
waiting for a purpose
I tell it
“go”
but who am I to
say anything

Rupi says it all

if her grace has been missed
you should find it
gather up her past
in her shadow
and twist it
into purple origami

for me to dry
each drop
that falls because
of ways men
have touched her

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maggie mae poetry, desert poetry, poetry about relationships, dark poetry, dark literature

the hardest part of loving her desert is
knowing that it did not come
from you

in a moment

lightning-216659_1280

a moment like that
like this
is crucial

lightning strikes,
dry heat
radiation
takes place

of
the sweet kiss
on my cold shoulder

I find seconds
in days
that last
forever waiting
to speak

whisper even

because tragedy
has hands
that rip through
this soul

this particular soul
that sleeps
like a demon
in benediction

that opens a
bloodshot
mouth
in his direction –

even the desert would
freeze over
if it knew him

Dystopia

seattle poetry, bipolar poetry, depression poetry, dark poetry, maggiemae poetry

out there
rain lives
and breathes
and falls asleep
the way I want to

instead
I stay

eat cactus

fry worms on black top

undress for men
I don’t want

touch
every
square
inch

like its you

Reflection

reflection
For this time being, she swept dirt away from dirt and from cactus and captured the memory of a small home made of partially buried lava rock and desert rain weeds. She swept Earth away from itself, angrily debating existence. And it was comfortable.

She wanted to sit and invite a sister and a mother to laugh and admire her desert. Without a roof. Without water. Without time. She wanted to stay and wait for a summer moon to smile at her with pride, with knowing.

And night came, but the desert never becomes cold. Coyotes came to practice midnight and bury sharp hunger through the necks of jack rabbits. The universe came to cover her head and remind her of tin roofs and frail wood spines of old women that shriek with each step she steps.

How cold the desert becomes in that small house.

Elvis is alive. Fact or fiction. Electric theory travels across a nation. She meets guitars and drums and sex and drugs. She is seventeen wild in a broken city. She is chained to an old lamp-post that jolts to life at sunset. Her lungs are clogged. Smog takes over. She inhales a damp determination for life that doesn’t smell like rot.

I meet her at twenty two and Newport Beach. Carpet stained by black top walks and coffee. It’s an LA Times kind of morning. Knit tops cover immodest mannequins waving to her from window cages. He head hangs to her knees. Cracks in the sidewalk taunt her. She is guilty and broken. She doesn’t speak or mimic or cry, but she can hear intent. I give her symbols. Ice. Shadow. Flight.

She chooses to choke.

Summer leaves her. I leave her in an hourglass. Her slim smile leaks through the sand. Time is running out.
She starts talking to the desert. A language I can’t understand. Ink leaks from eyes to her young lips. She tastes words for the first time. I stop to watch. She is thick with rage. We are intense and struggling. Our muscles melt together with neurons and we know each other. We are scared.

We see doctors and pills and whiskey and we time it just right so that our bodies do not fail. And we buy reviews and our way into a new way. Oranges explode and we drink fruit rinds. And I miss her when she is not there. We discover each other but we do not know. What is truth? Where does it begin and with who? We softly debate existence and beg for an out. Shamefully we beg for an out.

And here we are. In the middle of the Earth. Gravity. Cells. DNA. Still so unsure. Still begging for an out…

until we step into his driveway at midnight. Our hearts shake. His sharp hunger examines our every layer. One hand behind our neck. We stop breathing. We are out.

I Could Not Exist, Not For You

icouldnotexistnotforyou
those words hang stolen

weeping willow feelings
a translation
so desperate

so sudden
a panic slighted by
memories that
only sleep can
bribe from
a hidden cave

i think
i thought of you
as love

a piece of heaven
dangling over
a crimson counter-top
tempting my
sensations

a reverberation
of a gift
offered only
by the Universe

you stole
them from another
love
that flourished
in a time
that I could not exist

not for you