Saturday, July 14, 2012
neat
Um, what now? I'm not a lesbian because I don't look like you? You don't get out of Nebraska then? Heard of this thing called the interwebz? You can, like, see and sometimes meet people of other colors and creeds and even non-flannel-wearing-Lesbians. Try it. Hoe Bag.
damage
Was it necessary to bang my head on your head
board when you came? What's the point of this
medieval circus of bodies, tragedy and pain? No
wonder the martyrs lashed their shoulders
in repentence covering up the blows from
yesterday's folly.
Each harbinger swears on a new message
the one that will save my life. Hollering
redemption from every corner cornering
the market of lies. My concussion's one more
reminder of the pallbearers swaying my demise.
shine
When my mother sees a paring
knife she thinks, "vegetables". I
see a quill. My father has carried
a pocket knife ever since I can
remember. Splinter removal and
clean fingernails. I see pain relief,
medication for my aching head.
Dribbling or splashing on
the ground, those livid emotions
waken me, startle me to life. In
its shine, my upside down reflection,
smiles. My breathing returns, dark
clouds part in the sunshine glinting
off the perfect, sticky blade.
Mobile
Lying in bed, the ceiling swims
above me, a mobile of stains
and stardust. It's a worm's eye
view like an infant in a crib.
Shake out my pockets;
everything's gone. The tooth-
fairy's a hood ornament, Santa
Claus is dead, childhood's a
brass coin, Batman; a canvas
character. Holden Caufield is
the hero of my time,
my broken alarm clock.
Skeletons rattle my cage sick
of the closet. The black hand
of the Sabbath is at my door,
"Come out, come out whoever
you are". My mommy dresses
me just like daddy-
a study in tyranny.
My waking dream never ends.
I see fireflies now, they hover
over my dinner. This is where my
story ends on the dotted line
with a broken quill.
A mobile of stains and stardust.
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