Three Minutes In

Three minutes in – I am a dream.
Have you ever been met
by a mirror? Twisted like
eyebrows in confusion.
Steel eye compartments
ready for battle.

Nail my head to the floor,
my only choice is to look up
to neighbors…
to enemies.

The minutes slice off the clock
as we talk – I am imaginary.
She sees me with her husband,
white t-shirt sucked to my
chest, wet from digestion –
I am the dark apple.

My bags are packed, my body
on 90 miles per hour.
The hidden highway – I carve three minutes in-
distressed almond skinny
dipping in shame.
Have you seen me today?
Have you looked in the mirror?

In A Dream

Pig snouted soldiers strut
like heavy cannons,
over dry wild desert weeds

I tumble behind a boulder
maybe twelve or thirteen
I had not met the cycle yet
of Mother Earth and her Moon

The others slept in the madhouse
where echoes of screams
jumped from wall to wall

I tried to burn all of us down
once, melting us into a boiling
ooze where we could flow
together the right way

but she caught me and
I was sentenced to the garden
living off tomato bugs
and raw onion

This was when there was something
now it is this
desolate; sepia spotted trap.

I closed my eyes behind the giant rock
begging the shadow to suck
me into its safe home
It whispered that I was not ready
that my temples were froze

That’s when I heard their cries
mother and brother being
cooked alive
I opened my eyes and
the pig snouted soldier snatched
the dark hole from my face

I am awake.

Shipwrecked

When it is day, I do not recognize
this land. We live on
moonlit love and hard water
soaked in oak barrels.

When sunlight takes over
this land, I do not recognize
his hands that
lay me to rest with Strigiformes
and kiss my skin to death

his voice blurs my vision
when it is day, he is
not him
he is a reflection of a
fermented sea I drown in

every night,
when I swim away from this
foreign land I live on.

Away With The Night

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!

My Heavy Boulder

I’m stuck in this…..nothingness.
The devil tucks me in
at night. I sleep with cannibals.

I am an apple core. Pigs food.
Where did my blood come from?
I am just a trick.
I do not exist.

My sweat is black magic.
I am invisible.
I am air particles and
part of the walls.
I am seams in the carpet.

A blue moon today
is sad sand tomorrow.
My body is borrowed,
taken by the Mexican gun
and his man.

I am abandoned.
I have abandoned this sickly,
trapped in infected placenta.
A dark traveler between
thought and matter.

The water is cold here
but I am colder.
Death is coming.
He’s tied around my shoulders.
My only friend.
My heavy boulder.

Oh

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.

Midnight Hollow

I feel him rummage through my midnight hollow
fingering my heart,yet he will not follow.

His calloused hand move like hours
I blossom and bloom, but wilt like flowers.

I yearn for his stem, his waves, his oil,
then a part of his lips leads me to recoil.

I ache for touch, but my swells still clench,
I turn toward him, the reward of his wrench.

How is skin so familiar? Fingertips so strong?
This is what happens, when time turns for too long.

My pillowcase creases with the gnaw of my fist,
daylight is easy, but night can’t resist.

He is planted so deep, so deep in my dreams,
my body is taken by the past that screams.

His hands tick, with the minutes, away,
with the rise of the sun, my light starts to fade.

Deep in my screams, I run till I wallow
into the dark, my midnight hollow.

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!”

It Is My Breathe

In any room,
it does not matter which colors are used or
which carpet is laid,
in any room where teeth grind together,
or heavy hands grow into tree stumps,
I lose my breath.

It is not just any breath, either.
It is the breath that keeps me,
that prays for me
during moments that the stone ships sail in,

it is the breath that I hold
when dog-faced warriors
chop off my family’s heads,

it is the breath I caught when
unwanted hands disturbed my
tranquil femininity,

and it is in any room painted any color,
where deep red blows flushed faces into tight lips
and she,
or he,
pound voices of hammer,
roaring chunks of stew
into my tiny chest,
I do not know if it is I, or if

my breath loses me.

The Box

My soul has hands that feed my mouth
delight boxes marked “poison”.
I have second hands that are language.

I gave up youth for silent lips that
spread too thick. Two plump
pulsating cream puffs injected
with secrecy.

The boxes piled up to a thousand acreage;
a still wall with a calm face,
sipping tea with the Queen of servitude.
I have become a slave to iron curtains
and black rods.

Once upon a decade ago, I slept with
meaty warriors with bull-dog ears.
They carried sturdy death machines that
slaughtered innocence.
I heard them slice my siblings
to hamburger, while my stable body hid
in a homosexual bed.

I bled out of my ears for one tight night,
then woke up to the funerals.
I faced a casket with strawberry frosting
trim, small china pieces laid across
the mahogany lid.

I tipped with warriors, drinking their poison,
swallowing fear in full, single gulps.
They offered me a butchering tool
and I pulled it in, deep through
tissue and cartilage, into the warm cherry
pie that was wrapped inside my body.

I melted with metal. I succumbed to
murderous beasts that carry
angry weapons,
and without useful hands,
or mouth,
I became a box.