Am I New

Flapping tongue, to change your name, to change yourself,
to change,
to change,
you say it’s smoking time, maybe if the zone changed,
but we run on desert time,
at devil lake
I wish I was, a reservoir, I wish I was a dog,
rolling in the dirt, a tumble weed,
collecting time and breeze,
in the hustle
rolling,
changing,
flapping in my sleep to change position, to change disposition,
to change,
I meditate, a trumpet sounds,
an angel sings, is it me?
Did I work? Did the clock split my tongue
and now I am two?
Am I new?

Mosquito

Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.

Mosquito

Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.

Stuck In A Jar

If I count on the hours to happen
regularly, I’d be stuck in
a jar, afraid of measurement against
anything.

Instead, my cells vibrate against
all odds. I crack eggs, scrambling
locked brains, eating for the
sake of eating.

I have only been substantial forever.
Nothing more. Just my face,
along with legs, and hands that
move like a floppy clock.

But my name, now that is something.
Every hour that comes,
every hour that goes,
will remember my name,
just the way my cells will remember
how small I am,
like an ant stuck in a jar,
burning from the most toxic hour.

Familiar, Loving Skin.

Saturday morning cuddled up with me
and my headache. Oh, I have come to loathe
the way the skin of another
brushes mine.

In my mouth, I keep a wire brush
for these kinds of sentiment.
What does foreign skin want with mine?
I am not affection.
I am not security.
I am not love.

I am a long stick carved out of a fertile tree,
I wait with the rest to be carried away
for fire wood.

I do not ask you to touch me, but
burn me. Make me smolder
and burst into words that fit me comfortably
because the skin of another cannot.
My skin shrieks with the slightest of breeze.
It is angered and nervous.

A long time ago,
my familiar, loving skin was ripped from
my body, disassembled from its home. When I got
it back, I was distracted. It must have shrunk because
it does not fit properly now.

I have been wiggling in it for years, washing my insides
with cold water for deep compression, trying to find
the right size
for my bones and my muscles and all my dangling, angry
nerves, to fit.

I Will, I Will Do Now

My head, my long head burns
in fury as my teeth expand. I can taste gun powder.
It is only what I knew,
not what I begin to know now.

I can become a tomato, only when
I become a tomato.
I am not whole, or ripe,
or sweet, red flesh,
until then.

I will only be a youthful green seed, now.

And what will I do with myself?
I have let fat, green worms slither
around my precious skin.
I have laid root in rocky, dry soil.
I have hidden my aching vines from
sunlight,
and that was all then.

Now, my face pulsates as I grind
my teeth on old leather,
fighting expansion,
embracing the tension,

and I will, I will do with my sweet,
ripe fruit what I know now.

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!

ZombieBleach.

Rid these monsters of reflection.
Mirrors are vomiting
bleach blonde
bitches.

Pretty, vapid
chlorine
burns evidence of authenticity.

Keep their unsightly roots away!
I have grown my garden of
validity
over years of exiguous soil. Chemicals
will kill me.

Lost? Indeed! On every climate,
heads over porcelain, hoping
to
heave in that enamel gloss,
they export
beauty with unique finger tips;

to be a reflection
of another one,
somewhere!

Standard

Yesterday, you were
quixotic while I
came from lazy beggars. Yesterday, I
was obedient; buttoned up from the lips
down, waiting for a king’s summon.

Then, his majesty came out, knocking
on my
sun stained door. He arrived erect,
like a statue of a king
might, speaking assertively, made
up of upper-class
things.

I stood small. Barely reaching his knees.
Pushing myself to
abound in poise, to receive him equally.

We drew cards. When he smiled, I matched it.
When he threw wit, I caught it
in reciprocation.
I baked his boasts in cinnamon and
ate them as dessert.

By his majesty’s departure, he had
narrowed in volume.
Shrunk and blushing, he requested
me,
as a future gift to himself.

Now, I sit with his once luxurious crown,
recalling his Utopian image that left with him
yesterday.