brite white sox folded
over black shiny shoes
to reveal ribbons--
bows ironed into
perfect place
and straps snapped
for the occasion.
try not to scuff the surface
with a hopskipandjump
down the side
walk please
but skinned knees
and scrapped elbows
preserve the pleats
of crushed velvet
lace lining.
satin sleeves
slip and bunch
up shoulders throat
stifle the collar bones so
barely breathe
and scratch stubby
finger tips try
to break free
from the frills
but you look
oh,
so pretty,
princess.
pigeon wholed
frenzy of feathers flutters
bobble heads disembodied
blending into city streets
molting puddles
shades of muted grey.
the pack progresses down the block
dampened by fog morning gutters
a flash of iridescent violet
catches slants of sunlight
on the throat and
seeps underbelly.
scavengers scrapping
swooping upon
unfinished feed
what noble creature
who never cries
over spilt milk.
daydreaming
i imagine myself as a cloud.
dissipating into space
not trying to maintain any
particular shape and form.
letting the currents cast
my lines where they may.
a little boy watches me from below,
tries to make sense of who i am:
perhaps a whale, a dinosaur, a boat.
he decides to change me
by turning his kite
and facing me head on,
slicing through my belly,
revealing my insides
which are the same
as my skin.
the strings of his sword
cut me into pieces
the trail of bowties
splice my stitching.
my wounds are whisps
scattered through the sky.
they do not bleed.
i feel no pain.
but sometimes i rain.
these are not tears,
just bits of stardust
trying to find home.
my lungs swell with
the sea and i exhail
in purging waves.
landscape in oil paint
sipping in the sour juice,
pointed towards the sky
the shoots scratch
and itch the bare of my neck
now thrust among the thistles.
the sun splits the earth
its shadows saturate thoughts.
wind whistling in the shell of my ear,
trees creak and speak with forked tongue
moaning ghosts of dry, dancing gypsies
telling universal truths i cannot translate.
sea of sun sparks, rows of rhythms,
ripples marching always onwards,
after some unknown destination
to which all liquid light is fated.
solemn clandestine of peaks,
piled in points like drip castles of sand,
snow slides settle into crevices,
spilled milk solidified by sunshine,
the edges spoiled by white wash.
a waif cloud wanders overhead,
dissipating with each breath of sky,
falling back to teal lagoons
nestled below.
evolutions fittest feat.
blackberry picking
rambling brambles
reach toward blue above
ground in brown below.
cold water rushes
rivers through gravel,
whispers the way to
scattered secrets.
she plucks clustered kin
from nestled thorns,
collecting huddles
in burrows of gathered skirt.
deep wine bursts
from dark skins, seeps
down fragile fingers,
mingles with crimson
from thriving defenses.
potion of pain and pleasure
sour, sweet
stinging stains
on light, unripe lips.
wind
it whips to wound but only scars the surface
and whisps to stretch and streak transparent clouds;
it whirls across the barren prairie ocean
and whispers wisdom's secret words aloud.
it sighs and billows breath into the branches,
caresses grasses, dashing, dancing down,
gives sound and song and speech to certain silence,
awakens them, renewed vibrations found.
it waxes, wanes and watches as the moon does,
the ebb and flow of water, tide and sand;
the flux of force and faith that once forgotten
now moves, a wave of energy through the land.
no benefits
here i sit, staring idly at the objects surrounding me:
the computer screen filtering in and out of focus
in the foreground of my mind’s i. nothing but static.
lose all agency, answer only to the mechanical
monster—that crying baby begging to be fed:
its rows of red eyes blinking blindly
back and forth. my fingertips dart across its face
try to gouge them out, if only for a moment
of peace and quiet. classical melodies
rumored to improve artificial intelligence
float overhead like lazy clouds, climbing to crescendos
amid crystal chandeliers, and I count
fluorescent fixtures instead of stars.
here, time is measured in drips of coffee,
sip slowly and kill the pain,
stains seeping onto my buttoned blouse
like spreading blood. sweat and tears
wiped away with the back of a blistered hand
and i smile and say “good morning”,
not because you make me
but because i make myself.
though no one really
hears it in my voice.
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