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Literature Text
we dressed our
salt burns;
purloined ribbons
& bone crowns
spitting static through
our buzzing t.v. teeth
you're a silent migraine:
blue-blooded, honey-soaked
[& i want to be something
too pristine to
touch]
salt burns;
purloined ribbons
& bone crowns
spitting static through
our buzzing t.v. teeth
you're a silent migraine:
blue-blooded, honey-soaked
[& i want to be something
too pristine to
touch]
Literature
Aftershocks
In the dark of the cemetery,
I feed my troubles to ghosts--
a complaint about fickle muses
to Wyoming's Poet Laureate circa 1992
falls on deaf ears;
he's too busy wailing rhymes
over his wife's silent grave
to hear about the silence circling my veins.
A story or two about my health
is given to a doctor who passed three years ago;
he haunts the oldest sections he can find
in his stethoscope pajamas.
Tonight, he diagnoses the cracks
in the headstones. An improvement.
Mostly, he measures his own pulse
and mutters to himself.
Sometimes, a pair of knights on painted stallions
rush each other from across the hills--
the clash of the impact they n
Literature
conspire, respire
let me tie your hair in sinews
let me
wash it with matrix and cleanse
the pyruvates waiting to be
bound
to me, let me
string them together like
photosystems in the lamella
right across the street.
we're complimentary,
anti-parallel, anti-
social, anti-everything but
let me tie your hair in something bigger
than what we have; this
micro-world is no better
than the milli-
but at least in membrane-like
folds of a scrunchie
you'll have several (dead)
parts of you close
to the macro-world inside you.
yet
you are still larger
than the hundred-hair-you-lose-a-day
and nine-litres-of-water-bam-bam-gone
and half-a-million-gone-to-waste-
on-a-diagn
Literature
~
our eyes were fogged with farewells marking territories down our cheeks.
the ache felt like smoke at the edge of my throat and i was afraid
to say it loud before you said the ocean kissed your taste buds. we just knew.
maps tore apart and our paper walls built with just enough faith to last three decades broke.
it's been too long since we've been hurt with the blue of the sky and you are not the ache in my bones –
you're the crusts between my fingers when i tried to let the sun make me feel less alone.
you’re the clicking of knuckles i feel inside
and the fishhooks fumbling to pull out some pride
from arching, collapsing
(deep
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