Inside Of A Sleep

You have gone.  There is no now,
just used to;
cement packed into Earth fragments.
Ironic, it is, that solidity above the surface
is made from what lies beneath.

Think about – oh how you can’t!
I miss that.
Poor baby.
You try to kill me again,
and again,
to show me something new,

a new world inside of sleep.
Is this how it is for you?
A permanent anywhere,
where you never are, but were?

I miss that what it was
will not, and never be anything
but you and me, asleep inside of a
sleep.

Not In These Years

Delicious Sunday,
absent of the jam of people,
of masquerade.

My kite lifts off fevered shoulders,
enters frothy clouds to
mourn buried dreams and fly.

Asleep, on grass waves, I surrender
to stillness,
expecting great ends to
fall upon me.

I have won no roses
by thievery, I am oiled,
scented by the White snake
who coils her spirit as an
act of love.

If I was a child, I would
have expected this,
but not today. Not in
these years.

Deep White

Demons sleep in the deep white,
a place to rest while
laundry drowns without ultimatum,
while dismembered chickens
swell in heat – sticking to
bits of parsley that grew this year.

People expire faster than milk.
If it isn’t there taste, it’s their
noises or gestures
or lack of reflection.

Kids are running off to school,
I leave the bread in the toaster.
One more day, slice open the demon,
crawl inside

guilt grows off walls
shames eats at intestines
all the people go, go, go
off to let me sleep in the deep
white.

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!

Wings Of Amity

Is my dead name happening?
September, my quickest friend.
Who waits for who?

Each night, your hands part my lips,
delivering the wise bees.
My throat tickles from his telling wings,
his impossible story
about how God will forget me.

His fierce wildness
will throw thunder, while I drift
on wings of amity
he will strike! My veins will crumble,
my body will become
an old abandoned city
for his merciful army.

The bees cry in agony,
a storm threatens them now
as I dream
of nothing past September.
I am sick with fate,
but rise to courtesy.
The bees and their sweet story
do not abandon.
My grateful knee to the Earth,
I whistle out the bees.
Their freedom, my peace.

 

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.

A Man And The Worms

It harms me so loud and still,
the sweet departure of
a man and
the worms rolling about.

My window grants lengthy
gossip,
a red haired indiscretion
on his lips,

his soft offering
on a great night,
in a devil’s way.

He drinks like manslaughter,
his pleasant flee to the clouds;
to the moon burning out

his own execution.
We range from youth to wisdom,
he and I,

my blessing is here,
splintered between floor boards.

He is on his way out.

The worms vomit tar around
my window sill,
we slip together in service, but

he keeps a foot on the back door.
Sleep has a price that
I pretend not to notice,
close my eyes,

and should he have loved me,
I’d pity his silence and
let the worms have him.

Bennie and I

Brought white blossoms,
He did, on curved gravel
roads that stood well.

I couldn’t hear him.
I was riding Bennie, my pale habit.
My powder pastry mixing with me
like toxic nasal drip. I picked up my feet,
Bennie lifted me up, up, up.
We were deep in azure film,
scraping the sky for nothing.

He stayed with His ignorant box of diamonds,
level grounded,
staunchly fixed on my weightless finger.

Benny pulled me.
We floated to the tops of stars.
We floated to the top of dark.
We floated too far,

into the “too dark”.
Bennie was lost.
My ghost!
My shadow, swallowed
by infinity.

That’s when the buried corners came,
with hard-boned smiles and
broken teeth,
thin skinny, barely protection!
They came hard. Shattering moon windows,
bursting starlight.
They came for me!

I tried to scream but I was dry.
They picked at me.
They grabbed.
They reached through me,
straight through my green guts,
where Bennie was.
Hiding.

They shook,
shook,
shook,
trying to shake me off him.
They scrambled everything inside me.

Then, I fell.
Out of the stars. Out of the dark.
Back to the dirt where He was waiting
with a quiet ring, bent knee.
I did not know him.
I could not know him.
The buried corners
didn’t shake him out, but
they took my brain and
put the dark in its place.

Now, while my days sleep elsewhere,
He waits.

He Bags Them Up After

He bags them up after
he watches me give my limbs
to a wood chipper;
a test.
A Loyal Test.
A Bloody True Test.

He knows that we are gambling.
Everything is in.
Stakes are high.

Gangly arms and
gorgeous legs
hit,
kick,
scratch at him through
plastic.
It’s not that he doesn’t care to play,
he is convinced.

The taxidermy came.
Took a thousand dollars with
my useful pieces,
said he would come back tomorrow.

I waited.
He waited with me,
with my bloody mess of me.
He poured my tea.
He scented my herbs.
He kept my perfume.
He smiled approvingly at my test.

After sleep cauterized my wounded
lady,
I woke to the scent of
constant devotion hovering
around my limbless torso.
Hair brushed, breasts held
firmly in black cotton.
A smile of approval

and
limbs. Arms, legs,
kept,
stripped of death fragrance,
nails painted
with pretty sincerity.

His gift to me.

My Monsters

The monsters are awake,
lurking around
upstairs.  They hide out in the most
trimmed places;
stomping through the garden of adequacy, bathing
their filth in competency.

They awake me from agitated
sleep, speeding my attention away from the immune
hard-wood floor to
the bed of pins and needles they have
prepared.

The doctor says I have a choice.
I chose capsules.
(That was not the correct choice, they say)
I agree. The capsules do
not keep the monsters
away
or help me Rest In Peace – a
choice the doctor says is not a choice.

I am left with a capsule and the monsters,
swallowing the capsules with a pitcher of
beer – attempting a “submerge and die”, but they
have wicked
enamel on their
sharp little fangs and the capsule
is made of gel.

My monsters sink in their teeth and
shred open the pill
releasing the promised relief – One monster snatches a
handful and a thousand more follow, till
all the magical comfort
is stolen.

I can’t say I blame them – they
have an addiction. If these capsules do
what the doctor has promised, I would want a
piece of it, too.