Once you venture into the jar
there's no place left.
Light years close in on me.
Each vein restricts, the heart
beats backwards, hair snaking;
gasping, tears like glass beads
quivering in the void
around me and within,
feeling my eyes bulge and bleed,
turning to ruby gems
with sharp angles,
threading with my tears,
coiling around my neck and hands,
trying to fend them off.
Am I in a clinical waiting room
in a hell afloat, which has already
seen and been the death of me.
Through a portal, solar flare
rotating as the capsule
The only sound left:
the broken static from Houston.
The note was a mistake. I didn't
mean to write it, but I did.
Feeling no pain, nothing at all.
Sleep-walking with eyes open
and thoughts on hold, typing
bloodied fingerprints on the keys.
I hadn't planned to have you find the
black and white of my lost faith lying
stillborn in the paper tray.
Watching while you work in a
corner of the garden, near a
cherry tree you planted years ago.
Your hands, leather-clad, work the
clippers that chatter with
each cutting as petaled heads fall.
I tremble as you slowly approach my
favorite, the one that reminds me
of a fine pastel wine.
I've never sipped its nectar, but
admired its hue of palest green
in the heart of a white rose.
iconography of absolution
with no repent or repeal,
re-peel your serpent skin
with mass appeal
and cinnamon spice
roof space, roofie place
in the roof of your
sp(l)it the piquancy of your
and plaster it over your
cheekbones like fresco.
is a jackson pollock
and the art
is the quill
of a stillborn
blood clot's mother.
you've been doing this too much
and you're not a model,
not a one-hundred cara(t)
or even a loose hair
on the curtain
of a givenchy sneer.
cornflower mood with the confidence
to cope with fair weather
featherweight hues of happiness.
harlequin shades of the same face,
it's all blue when it's fresh
or when it's a storm-torn
sea shell with remnants
of sky pigments
powdering its curves.
rain on me, endlessly
changing the key of my song
right and left, write or wrong
tangled in the cord of a phone
seeing you before you do
seeing me before I do
free falling without consent
a harsh killing, and so willing
smooth as silk the rush(ian) flow
When did it start, and where did it
come from before my own
existence, gender not withstanding.
The freshly minted self
defied carbon dating, while
shadows paced in circles,
recalling the newly born legend
with an old soul, lis'ning for
the piercing cry of carrion birds.
I remember other times, when
deserts were seas filled with whales,
turning to cliffs of bone
rising from racing trails of dust,
pulling down what was mine
to carry me 'till the next chase
when nature's way was my DNA,
not the will of those after me,
their scratchings set in stele.
I was unbowed and instinctive
through many of life's brief returns,
stalking the se