Sunday, October 20, 2013
I was freed and reunited with my mother-- who,
like a stroke victim, did not grasp the immensity
of what i'd been through. No more chamomile
feelings, or else it was chamomile all the time.
No in between. No mother slipping away slowly.
I'd had my head out the window of a train
passing through a tunnel. Nearly decapitated.
I should never have had my own head
out the window, but I have this thing with wind
and locomotion. This app on my phone reminds
me to stick my head out the window every time
Every now and then I have to move. The pain
is a ball that rolls towards me, forever. Deer sit
in the periphery like unmoved chess pieces
not covered in dust, but slick as seals.
My ballerina self has light on her face which is
looking up to the moon. She is transparent, lace
in her lungs-- something fibrous: an illness which
looks like snowflakes covering the seenof a wreck.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
echoes. (His heart is sick with something
like blue fingers
warm and bruised.)
The dog howls like he's never feared.
Ache. He howls like the bright,
blank page exists an hour later.
The dog is still
He's just realized he's lost something
it's still hurting,
the dog howls.
what if you go find the dog,
he comes to you--
you feel the sadness in his head.and his sadness then kisses you.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
In the morning I will try
to describe a color to you
you've never seen before.
It is like
a more beautiful blue.
By the way, I can look at any color
and be okay. I can hold orange
within my iris, take it with me
to a place it don't mean a thing,
anymore. Orange don't mean a thing.
At night the colors stay outside where
they're supposed to, mostly.
I sleep with the windows open.