this does not belong
in a book
or on paper
it should be
blazing across
each existential universe
your immaculate
humility stumbles
my gesture
bathe me in
every movement
that has made
you a man
every echo
is wild
pulsating
carnal
I am
Blue notes ready
get the fumes ready
we’re going to spread this
wild.
City streets rain down
pistol shots
whiskey shots
wake me up, I’m just a
child.
Sell me back to classical keys
the ones that leave
fire in oxygen.
Your spirit still sits
in your acoustic strings.
Baby, I could see a future of missing
your blue river running
wildly over
everything.
Don’t tempt the flames
they’re easier than Spring.
We’re going to spread this wilder
than fire.
Blue brick stone eyes,
like four leaves, I am in luck.
Liquid doesn’t drip from rock.
Not all skin is the same.
Some grow into cat-o-nine tail,
but you…
you douse poison like a God.
I am witness,
without religion,
without faith,
without hope,
out of the blue,
brick stone eyes
came to me
an old idea –
a different skin
growing on me.
She has a name hanging
in a back orchard somewhere.
Cowbells are ringing. I gave it up
like an omelet to a woman married
to perfection.
I am missing limbs for limbs,
heart for heart. Who am I to promise
life to another broken life?
Her name stands on a balance beam
between two tongues, heated tongues,
a melting puddle of ownership.
Where did she come from?
Where does she belong?
Tug-of-war. I own her more.
Someone who should have been born
is hanging in a back orchard somewhere.
I let her go. I love her more.
The
cello is a thick, heavy syllable
crying against the shoulder of
a thin woman,
a road of auburn hair trailing down her
spine. She understands value.
Prose is never numb,
it spans across nerves
playing emotions with finger
tips of red wood.
You brought Lydia to me
at twenty-five,
she dripped into my sleep
and led me
on a journey.
For you, she was a symptom of
something incurable. She opened my throat,
expanding me and you
suffocated.
The cello smiles with wide fingers,
thick like its soul.
Lydia takes me on a piano ride
in red wood snow where prose
grows and grows and grows.
I can’t have you come back like August
without water. Your limbs shriveled and
cracking, bare knuckled,
moving like a tree
away from fire.
We built moons in the back of Cadillac’s,
coffee black leather seats
trimmed back – to make
room for the
others.
I wore thorns under my skirt, then.
I let the pure taste rise from your voice
and settle on the rhythm that
rocked us into daylight.
For you, sound lined up
and agreed with me.
You will come back like August always does;
a dirty deed to compliment me,
to bring me to naught!
But, the moon sails on
and without it,
I cannot.
Darkness is the culprit that lingers behind
each slice of sweet Nectarine.
I am late.
I’ve been here before.
The other side of love.
The place that dissects the tongues
of former lovers
and turns them into layers.
love on
anger on
love on
hate on
jealousy on
love
on poison liquid every night before we stumble to sleep
with the darkness that caresses our feet
and convinces us that we love ourselves
to much to live on the other side.
I am late.
I’ve been here before
where I could feed you Mercury
while the sun sets on us forever.
I’d caress your feet and pray to the darkness
to take you far away
from my love.
The best part of the sun, where it melts away for its own reflection.
To prove something.
We stand in snake skin and
leopard print, digging for
bones of the extinct
while money blows up the noses
of our youth.
I thought about you today.
Your early reflection smoking
life into you,
black coffee lungs watching the sunrise bring life into
the rest of us.
My skin is hanging up now.
I am melting away for my reflection to do the same.
To prove something.
quick bolt tight lightning
grip, thigh deep
in thick sand
south landing mound
in palm of your hand
hot air
tumbles over bare
back, raw hide lash
prints where cougars
sit
Black panther, I pray
for a taste
of your thread,
silk lessons spinning
deep under
skin
pricked thorns leak
wildly like
we
a gesture
a kiss
a swift, single move
then tongue to tongue
a battle for the best
pulse over pulse
one
sweet
gulp
From the top of the blizzard
with buzzards ablaze,
the reaper stands watching,
waiting for skin to drop
or lungs to fall
waiting for the right moment
to steal fingers imprinted on
the Universe,
hearts beating on the sun,
and moons kissing under the tender lights of love.
He stands waiting, in every dream I dream, where your hands are
more than a memory,
waiting for me.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 