Miss May

•May 17, 2019 • Leave a Comment

miss may

Miss May

Mixed media/May 2019

Letters to The Wizard in the Lights

•May 11, 2019 • 11 Comments


*image found HERE

Letters to The Wizard in the Lights

My hellish retribution,
I strive to give you meanings
and laurel you
like a jackal does
to a steak he is about to
sink his teeth in
yet I fear that what once was so young of me
is no more
and the marigolds have became
deaf to my queries;
no council is at my brow,
no darkening
or illuminations
and no steadiness
in my hands
that perhaps, long ago,
would tear at you
like hour hands do time.
I am alike my fear of yesteryear
as I gaze into your eye, my lover,
and I look upon all sorts of surface,
pale and dim and emerald and gray
and I notice the sun crochet like lace
on the leaves of the birch
and I spot the corners of our different streets
wearing midnight
as the drowsy canyons are eroding
into cayenne dust;
and I can smell the skin, the death, the coffee and dreams

but nothing is sweet;
it just is.

My heart is crucified like a
starfish lays on a coral
and believe me when I speak
I would rather speak to dogs,
and trees, and blueberries
for I would strip them very carefully,
star by star, speckle by speckle,
dot by dot, each sleeve over arm,
careful not to touch them
as I would do the same with my own body;
as I would do the same with your own body.
I have tried seven thousand different prayers,
I drank sea water,
I orchestrated gallows, I hung,
I planted and plucked,
sowed and flayed,
consumed and withered,
consumed and blossomed
to vivify the love
and explain it to you!

But it just is.

I want to sound
fancier in my fancy,
I want to roll out like stereo,
I want to mastermind the crickets,
I don/t want to trial and test
like a crusader does to a horse
or a damsel, or a wall;
take small sips and bites,
condone myself and behave
nor do I want to riot
upon whomever’s request;
sometimes it feels like I carry a graveyard
of gods within my chest
and you believe in them,
and all the chidlren do,
but I don’t.

I just am.

And I will not pray
or tell the truth,
I will not repent
or bend the mountains edge
to sway your fingers
into a host between my teeth
like a contract of forgiveness;
I will not ask no priest how to change you,
I will ask no clergy for the longevity
of what you do to my body’s mush,
there are no languages for sighs
you make me do,
as I race with your breathing,
perhaps I can heave on command,
but will I slaughter?
Perhaps I can swallow a desert,
but will I grasp?
I will listen for the therebetween
and weave it into my hair lest I forget
how you sleep, how you sound,
how you ask and how you demand,
how you wonder, how you question,
how you serve and how you forgive,
how you steal
and make me rage against the thunder
until all I am is in your voice, charred;
I am preparing myself
to nourish a new scar;

I love you,
you just are.

See the dandelion as he claws his way through concrete
and the poets who blame it
on mothers and fathers, and homelands and soil
and the way the record spins like melting grace
but screams like static
like the two swallows who nest in my living-room’s
window-sill, year after year,
the same two of them,
each time fatter and older.
This place is ugly but still makes the flowers grow.
I am a bard and I know how to strum these veins,
but I am boring to you
and I sound like a haunted quarry
in winter
and lull you to sleep.
Perhaps, I will run like I am savage over the rocks
and curve around the earth
much better than I could with my hips;
I will be wet and dull, rushing you
to places you may not want to see,
I like to spark things up
like matches, lighters and bonfires
just to see how they burn,
just to see how it feels to be away;
I fear I may have in my will to stay
forgot how to travel, and roam, and leave,
Perhaps I am too tired for you,
Perhaps too wide awake
like somewhere, nestled and pricked
like a thorn to a meridian
some drum is always going off

for rest;
for hunt;
for us who no longer are.

Pick a grain of sand from the bottom of the ocean
like I would rather die
than admit I crave your touch,
like the east,
like the pavement,
like a grandmother’s overgrown garden,
like myths, and chairs,
and pockets, linens, spirits; like things.
Like a crescent moon that looks like
silvered thread that thin
and picky
is about to fall
yet clings.

Letters to Miss. Bordeaux

•April 29, 2019 • 7 Comments


*image found HERE

Letters to Miss. Bordeaux

What are we to do then, you and I?
when we both
answer to the call
of two human skulls
banged against each other
in the darkness
on a forest clearing?What now
when in the palm of master death
twin contracts of
I will not row across the moor sister;
i will not join your cult of blessed mornings,
i am a priest of none,
a church of nothing
and I have no gods
of sunshine nor of ash.
I can’t.
This is your ditty
but of Stygian blood;
this is your song
the wastelands
at the mercy of a flood.

Protest me, I beg you,
oh, explain me things
in whichever voice you want,
be my mother, be my lover,
be my frail and my concern

Will we learn?
“What have we learned?”
“From who, from who, from who?”

I slide into the con-artistry of words,
and you are red, and red, and purple pale
and blue and blue
all mixed together
into being sincere.
I dont speak your language
and you dont speak mine
and we are two immigrants
inside one female body
and we are both serving a sentence,
and our lovers are wardens;
thats why it feels so good
to stretch it across borders
and not outside
in front
of the street.

What are we now
when we are mashed into
a pack-less frightened
You will ask me
not to use
the softest of your breasts as
cushion pins
for my fangs.
What are we to do now,
you and I,
you wretched heart
and me wretched slut
for the sea.
Join a club, or join a gang
or start a book club
or read books and love our thy-selves
do an alphabetical order on the shelves
hang around?
Loiter in flowers,
loiter in apartment graves,
charge the castle, arm the guards,
attack, defend, marry a kingdom
sell it for a cloud.

What are we to do, now,
you and I?

*For NaPo day 29


•April 27, 2019 • 1 Comment



Mixed media / April 2019


•April 23, 2019 • 2 Comments


Mixed media/ April 2019

The Deer-hunter’s Lament

•April 20, 2019 • 12 Comments


*image found HERE

The Deer-hunter’s Lament

I had a dream;
my pale hands
were in a nest
twirling for stealing

My other hand,
my right hand
is mispelling social constructs.

My soul thinks
that it is at a
spelling bee.

Where are we?
It’s neither purgatory
nor a circle of hell
or golden gates in heavenly
it’s not in Shambala.
And nothing is ever enough.

My left wing got stripped
so a sailor
could get a tattoo
of a crescent Moon.
It always felt like I will leave you soon

so I had to say everything,
like a music box
about to
run out of batteries;
analogue flesh.

I was teaching a garden
how to speak binary,
I was whispering to roses
in Morse code,
I was translating tea
to kilometers.

I had a flock of birds
and I stabbed them all with a fork
and then set them free.

I wounded,
and it was not innocent,
the grape was all mine,
I was the vintners daughter,
the sky soared into me.

I dreamed I learned how to count
to ten,
one number by each,
like ballet
in the dream,
my hands,
so pale,
in the nest
twirling for stealing

I never learned to wait.

Hustler in the Spirit

•April 19, 2019 • 11 Comments

happy sparrow painting

*image found HERE

Hustler in the Spirit

Amateur sparrow
basting in the breeze
cackling and coercing
doom into wings.
Essence tremolo
Fruits of calligraphy,
gastronomy of light
hanging low.
Imagine his marrow
jousting from the sieve
kingfishers cannot pronounce;
lore of none and lords of everything.
Maybe will storm, mayhaps will follow
Nimbus like poison, like litany,
obituary of flights,
pornography on the prow;
question the other sparrows,
relinquish their misdeeds,
seeping and romancing,
translucent like a marigold
under the burn of a love;
verily, meet me eye to eye,
whistle of bright ages in
xylography of forsaken sages
yield as though I do, before
zeal of morning stars.

*For NaPoWriMo day 19, an abecedarian poem.

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