221 B

Something slightly awkward with all the wording and references, but necessary nonetheless. For my sister, because she's obsessed. :) I think brunettes should be called chestnuts from now on.






and she is a chestnut, just like me;
roasting those pale thighs in the sun,
freckles blooming like tulips in a Rorschach,
dearest-Watson smiles sashaying from her
hand-over-laugh lips.
Backwards, bent-double,
together we are leaping over rooftops,
swimming like Dory: down, singing.
I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
a blatant refusal to slick sun-screen
on tan-hungry shoulders.

While the rains sleep,
she sighs and reverse-curls
to my side, covers thrown opposite
into the gap's thirsty, darkened maw:
open-less eyes fluttering in the partiality of
dreams - like a deformity of recollection;
an inability to accept reality as definable
by light.

I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
lifting up on elbows to decipher
the rache scratched inaudibly into
those noctilucent cloud-layers -
pinkish fingernails
tenaciously worn to the quick.
Sometimes, she hides in plain-sight,
hunting amongst the crowd for a
delight; alas, poor Yorick:
skull in the palm of her hand.
She is quaffing coffee
by the cup-full,
patches discarded as poisonously-sweet.

She is a chestnut, just like me,
as we balance on our bellies
watching the surf come in and
the moon rise all full and white
to fill in the ozone-holes leaking
star-matter.
She doodles "peace" on her arms,
and I feel the violin of thought
vibrate in my temples - supplanting.

The Sir was right:
to die is, truly, an art.

Echoing Mimsies

I desperately crave a glimpse of limping muse. :[   Just some leftovers to try to spring myself into creativity. meh. Mimsy as in the nonce word combining both miserable and flimsy; not as in the slang word vagina. :) pretty sure I misused it in the title, but whatever; it's a made-up word. I can misuse it if I want. Enjoy (grumble, grumble...math; grumble, grumble...French-and-Indian War)



Dear wanderlust,
I feel the inchoation
of ten-thousand tongues
sizzle-snapping against my ricocheting arms.
I wind up anti-clockwise,
bowing belly-up, head arching to
see what lays beyond the unseen
and the retrospective-easel of consequence.
15 particles of hair threaten to dangle past
the asymptote - delicate Proclamation Line - and
I think I may finally get it
Mr. Gray; {y does not exactly equal wonderful} and
{x is not always the decimation of tides.}
Sometimes the domain crosses the range,
and there are implications,
exclamations, and interpretations
of truth.
F(x) marks the spot where you will
not find me.

Crickets play hexachords on tinder-tender
hips, chirruping outside my shutter-slit eyes,
and sometimes in the baking heat of nightmare,
I beg them: slower, slower. Make the night
lag a little longer through
daybreak.
I would chime in, but it appears I am musty;
rat-a-tat-tatting on wood-paneling,
squeaking and chipping pieces of aperture
with each skippity-skip-rustle breath.
In the deep of morning, it is a bagpipe that
is resonating in my organs, flutes sounding;
on lazy days, the ivy-vines
can be seen metastasizing upon
the very skin I trapeze.
Does this mean I'm lonely?

Dear carpet-cluster,
I thrust the throttle forward
and fell down because I lost the acceleration
in my knees.
This moment is a horrid one
because I cannot seem to
collapse my backwards-elbows
like a tent, shins shunting into vinyl
bags for storage. Understand, I need every brittle pinion,
because I was born four teeth past telling and
four bones short of strong.
The wind can blast me cerebrum-down
or sunny-side-up and it won't matter,
because fingers have
twinkle-twisted me
asunder.
There isn't any room for
ruminations or ripened spiders
in my bedazzled sleeves.
I am walking icy-hot on coals
of disaster, and my ear-canals are telling me
westward
is where home has blown.

Glassy windows crack open enough for
air to circulate but not to my
delight, as manuscripts are
often unnumbered and torn from my hand
in a tornado of analytical-disintegration.

Between forest-fires and lackadaisical
leaves, I clickity-clack these words onto
the underbellies of trees, scrounging around for
leftovers to nuke and, hopefully,
send me whip-lashing back to originality,
because most of what I have seen
is plain ignorance and rusty inference.
I want something luscious and drenched
in liberties; tempestuous and total.
Does this mean I'm undeserving?

Bathroom Ideas

Wrote this while my friend and I were changing for P.E.
Keep in mind, I do not do her any justice.
--on a side note...I feel slightly useless. I never blog. I just post my shit and logout.--



Balanced on the sink,
there is an instinct:
the instinct of a wounded animal to hide.

Stockings furl gently over timidly
scarred kneecaps (too many nights pretending
not to pray), tuck-and-rolling around
those thighs; thighs with muscles that
run the full length
up,
like a seam: a seam in too-tight jeans.

She stands, tugging her skirt down,
always down in the back, front, right side,
left side because short is not enough fabric
to conceal all
the sensitive spots she thinks she
owns like rainbow wristbands.

There is a vagueness in her movements
that makes you wish for more.

Lonely eyes glimmer green in
passing; eye contact a thing of
fleeting beauty and expression:
always a half-smile hidden on
pavement-lined lips: bitten red.
A loneliness seeps into those steps --
shuffle-shuffle, shuffle-scuff
-- so shallow and innocent.
She does not look at herself in the mirror
unless to paint her face away,
pencil on eyelids.

There is a tenderness in the way
she braids her hair over one shoulder
because there is no one to
do it for her.

Clavicle, and it feels like your hands

nyuh, titles kill me, but here you go. there's a line...a line that I hate, but I can't improve it. :P
ah, the moments of waking.



I sleep
bare-backed and
unbuttoned, wintry thighs
kissed by the chill
of May, sheets coiled in
tea-leaf shapes. Pictures
flutter on the walls, an expenditure
of light, open
windows breathing thumbs
across the bed frame,
my right-sided clavicle.
Somewhere inside
the womb, my hips begin and
ankles end, an obtuse
slant of knees
knocking
on your bedroom
door.

I shift and
sigh.

My socks are what touch
the ground
first, legs over the
edge, shadows in the
leech-light. There comes
a transition
- shower hiss and
silent sway - in
which the wh-wh-whiring
of the ceiling fan
is the closest I come
to the sun.

we should be old by now

His soles are in the sidewalk
and I have trouble breathing such
tendencies; such inclinations to
dance, even as the violets collapse
beneath the incling
-incline
--fjeld rocket-launching into the
air: seclusion arisen.
God, his cigarettes are bread crumbs
on the ground; oh, the tendrils,
tendrils of pity
and worry
and sickness winding
beneath those shoulder blades, striding,
two jackets to keep the cold out.

I make both of us sick
and there's coffee in the cracks
in the sidewalk in the ground,
plants rising with baited breath
to scour the sky blueless.
Pollution tastes so pure
when all you see is destruction,
and oil spills are just rainbows
unless it's in your backyard and
there's a spark in your arthritic arm
and it drops.
Firelight is in our eyes tonight,
salted green, waving windless.
And oh all the smoke(?)
it makes me sick to be so near;
nearly there.

My thoughts are on the pages
on the table on the brink
of destruction because nothing
is beautiful unless there are
folds,
creases,
envelopes with letters
and kisses and tattered
flowers clinging to roots.
I cannot breathe the smell
of perennials and daffodils,
but there is amazement in
the way they tangle so
perfectly, utterly.
He mingles with the sounds of thunder,
butterflies underfoot going crunchcrunchcrunch:
a plague of broken wings and
oh, the last ones on the planet are yours.
Fold them tender.

His footprints are in the tremolos now;
all the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe,
fingers snapping: vorpal sword,
piercing words, going snicker-snack in the
dimly falling filaments.
Such inconsistencies,
and I have trouble breathing;
all these molecules in the air.
Such fucking clean air
I have trouble asphyxiating.
Oh, Callooh! Callay!
Where is the pollution?

In capturing the rainbow,

April is over, and I'm sad to hear.



sometimes the sky slips
landward -- tiptoe tumbling, heels
over head, cartwheel-careening -- into
murky-bottom depths; forest-greens
and ravaged gravel roads; skimming
its knees on the elliptical infinities
of porch-swings, pavement, potholes.
{The oceans of decaying sea-flowers;
a threshold of nebulous dreams gone sour,
incarcerated and sunken [dismally
drowned] like aubades
and star-fish;
entranced, disillusioned, segment-twisted
beneath ripples,
rejuvenated cloud-tendrils aching for
elevation and annexation/alleviation.}

Upon conquering,
sometimes the sky trickles
earthward -- treetop stretching, splatter
bursting over the zenith, dawn
yawning pale-crimson and azul --
onto downward spiral puddles:
{oil spill whimpers glossing the
surface; tapering,
tainting, tantalizing, turulich,
turchini, tala: tautological.}
The sky sits on the platform;
the window-weeping edge;
balanced on the beat of
a drum,
toes testing the tepid waters
of ubiquity [lingering humanity.]
Softly, softly,
coughing, it sighs between
breaths and breadths and wing-widths
-- the seconds separating dappled eyelash
kisses upon cheeks -- as
April turns to May,
and daylight crescendos
into day.

In the Name of Flippancy

wrote this a week ago, after a certain occurence.
That one line, yes, that one...the funny guy said that.



This is how it starts.

Spring
and the butterflies don't know what to do
with all that nectar.
Springtime
and the mountains are in bloom
like they shouldn't be:
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
snowy apparitions in the velvet-vomitting
sky.
Spring
and the children are dancing,
chanting, howling to the blue moon
and the parochial stars;
"wrinkle, wrinkle [iron out the scars.]"

This is when it starts [to end.]

In sleep,
the people dream that atmosphere
is actually ocean and constellations are
schools of fish -- shimmering, sashaying,
shooting.
In wonder,
the world falls in to slumber
murky as a grotto: dismal dreams
and parting thunder.
In Tahoe,
there is winter, and there is July,
and somewhere in between
the flowers bloom, seed,
and die;
transitions are a risky business
- earth into sky, tautology into taciturn,
water into wine.

This is when it ends.

Winter and wind-turbines;
women and weeping;
whispers and watsonia.
Wrinkles in a water-scope.
Oh, what a lovely paradox.