A drive-by. A mellow house at sunset.
Timing may be everything, or maybe not.
She could have glowed the same, say if
in the slip of morning, or the seep of fun.
But she shown in a photographic light,
and you know what that means.
Everything levitates, gravitates.
And anger (for lack of a better color)
won’t burn in a 5 o’clock butter.
So you are. Welcome to simmer
in 30 seconds of happiness.
Breathe a fuzzy incense ~ this subtle sigh ~
a chiffon house smacking of happy.
[for d’Verse Can you guess what color I am?]
Like clockwork, I’m stillborn.
It’s uncanny, you know? Words I’ve heard
before are setting my heart right presently
in the only way that’s possible and sure.
With my eyelids closed. In corpse pose
“Can a mother forget the child at her breast?”
–something sweet like baby’s breath
whispers to the veins housed within my
soft sack of skin, I love you.
I sense their faces.
I talk tenderly to the ones who’ve disowned me.
We walk barefoot until somehow we stumble
in the way of sunshine through an open wall.
Fresh faces smelling like apples.
I float into mornings this way. Happiness
evaporating cooly. I rise again, without them.
[for d’Verse Poets]
I pinch the red on his newly naked ear
between my forefinger and thumb,
still locked into their scissor-grip hold.
A blister of blood wells up willingly
— and so it is. With light pressure
there’s no fear in love, yet my fingers flinch.
“Please turn your chair this way.” Turn your
mind away from any form of reflection.
There’s no small talk, really. Just an old pair
of kitchen shears, his bones resting in the sun..
— coarse salt and pungent pepper hair
lying in a neat pile, soft under foot.
he was perfect. appealing punctuation–
word weight and proportion.
truth be told, i’m sure i had a tiny hysteria
under a jasmine vine one afternoon
at the sight of his line breaks.
i laid across his literary landscape
multiple maddening times a day
pleasuring myself with his hand-
picked citrus lemons and verdant leaves.
when he supplanted ‘nape’ for ‘neck’
his breath brushed me exactly there, and
subderminally i knew i would be reading
this new and exciting language like the
back of my hand for a very long time.
i’ve been having my own thoughts.
i like to indulge
them with winter wine,
cover them with ridiculous red velvet,
let them stumble around;
change it up
for humanity’s sake of it.
my favorite is when they close their eyes.
they’re so sweet reaching out with starlight fingertips
as in a blindfold sensing game; laughing and
groping for a hand to hold,
feeling about for a wide-hipped partner
looking for an open-booked mouth
to dissolve it straight away —
bellow: we are legitimate, chaotic,
charmed, for sure,
[for TSM #143 and d’Verse]
I’m a mythical thing beyond love,
above love. I sashay barefoot
out of a shower mist. Instinctively,
I know I hold all seven oceans
because I’ve slept with tides all my life.
Every morning I’m reborn.
Re-drawn in charcoal.
Without blushing, or becoming unbecoming,
I cover my body with milky white clouds.
I feed my tongue fresh-fallen snow and
it’s nice to taste like Christmas.
My tresses are a light southernly wind.
Each small breast, a suckled spiced latte.
Maya was right to say phenomenally.
I’m a mythical thing. I’m a phenomenal thing.
“The mountain path leads skyward and dissolves into light.” -Tukaram
I examined my sadness all Thursday morning.
Everyone else was baking pumpkin pies.
I stretched my leg on a log, but not for too long
on account of me being unbalanced from the last 20 years of shade.
I asked some hikers (a man and his son), Is this the way?
And even though they didn’t look like prophets, I made myself light.
On top of the summit I got rid of a scarf, a sadness, a jacket, a regret.
I stayed there awhile on a wooden bench while communion lasted.
My eyes burned the whole way back down, because I inhaled the sun.
[a twiglet prompt & submitted to D’Verse]
How long, world? Stick your tongue out like an exhausted lion. Push your tonsils through an open window. No one’s looking. Cut off your mane. Regurgitate as formerly. I feel the urgency to tell you no one’s numbering days anymore. I’m sorry. The old pane’s been gone for decades. It’s a cutout. The plastic’s been ripping into sawed teeth ever since the 1980’s. Exited. Like 2020. A whimper. Try not to look back. All I do is look back. Let’s not use scrappy words anymore. There’s something sinister about deadwood in December, like the density of shwarma in our mouths reminding us we’re not from there, or here. Just keep walking out of frame, past this banged-up country scene.
[for TSM # 137]
that day we had a little mood adventure
and yeah, there was water below,
and yeah, there were massive steel braids —
i don’t know if you saw it
the Benjamin Moore Paint bucket,
the little dogs on leashes
sometimes we were hand-in-hand;
sometimes we acted those roles;
your hand on my ass
and some of the time i couldn’t understand
despite the daylight
despite the little dogs crushing it
despite me twirling my scarf fringe
despite the lilting of my head towards the sparkle
of the sun on the water
the fantasy always
what did you think she would call it?
more tiger, less sex kitten, taking over
the world and streets in a country that
needs the influence of women.
cats, so obviously woke.
it’s their drive-by super power to leave
calling cards of powdered prints in places
of men’s psyches which only creatures of high
intuition and acumen can reach.
[for TSM # 130]