Web

I have spider webs in my stomach
It's almost beautiful
the way they twist and weave
invisible fibers
stretch up to my throat
and tighten;
circles around the heart
and strings through my vulnerable
systems.
Glisten - weave -
then leave me alone.

Mangroves have feelings too.

The mangrove stretches its roots above the water and folds its gnarly legs to its trunk, like a child cradling his knees under his chin. The roots anchor reluctantly like the tips of curled fingers tapping below the surface of opal sea foam.

Think about it.

Love is the ultimate masochism.
Delicate
Precariously balanced
a tea cup
warm
and seductive
sweet
inevitably tips
Pieces of glass
I run to it
hold it tight to my heart
Pieces of glass
breaking my skin
I hold them close
and cover with kisses
Pieces of glass
breaking my heart
Love
is the ultimate
masochism.

And there will be wailing and grinding of teeth

Treachery
disguised thinly as
debauchery
fools no one
and it is known
that fools
reside in the house
of mirth,
and the wise
dwell in the house of
mourning.
But when morning comes
so slowly I
wonder what was
worse:
the agony in the garden
or the torture on
the cross?
Judas
must you
betray me
with a kiss?
A crown of pity
A crown of thorns
A crown of revelry -
they say wine
poured from
his wounds
-blood and water-
-a feast at the table-
Some wounds sting longer than others.
Thanks be to God.

I've decided...

I've decided that I am going to run away with a young sea captain with squinty eyes and sun-bleached hair and beard-stubble, and we're going to live on a house boat and sail the seven seas, catching things such as lobsters and conch for our meals and we'll wash it all down with tropical-punch Kool-aid and we'll see the entire world through salty-ocean-spray-lenses and our skin will turn into leather and we'll be somehow beyond human-half human, half fish -- because we'll spend approximately 33% of our time in the water, punching sharks in their stupid flat faces if they dare to come near, and every night I'll get to watch the stars from the deck of our house boat and I'll tattoo the night sky on my body with freckles and between my adaptation to the choppy terrain of the open sea and my shark-self-defense, I'll become so tough and strong that I'll be unrecognizable to my squishy self now that cries during the "Little Drummer Boy" song in a children's Christmas pageants.

The Sky Above The Island

The night sky is so dark that it appears to be ink, in which all light of cities and sounds of civilization sink into its endless depths, beyond the surface of the atmosphere into the silent vacuum of space.

The angels cast handfuls of stars across the surface of the raven sky and float in clouds of nebula and shine in diamond studded pictures of connect-the-dot mythology.

The treasure of the night sky (above the islands) is the tropical orange moon, rising above the ocean with ethereal grace and Christ-like substance.

And far below the salty breeze and bits of maritime debris decants the bitterness of me.

Perplexing

They say that
"comfort is the enemy of change"
but I'd say that the enemy
of comfort is change.
A mirror reflection, perhaps
but beware the back luck
of the broken shards of a
looking-glass.
Look into your reflection
and be honest what you see
beyond that pretty face
the mask of
plastic
smiling and smiling and smiling.
I'd say to check your priorities.
Bullshit isn't flattering.

Neurotoxic

Extracting venom from a serpent
is simple
press its face
softly
fangs sink into
a vile
and catharsis happens.
A catharsis
of poison.
But a woman has
no fangs
that one can see
and she can only
hold it in
until
her body tingles with
its potency
till out her pores
the venom pours
and searing eyes
and silent cries
and she's found coiled
on the floor.

Sojourn into Childhood

After a turbulent end to the semester, I find myself traveling 800 miles across the US with my parents, my sister, and my 10 year old brother to the sunny state of Florida. In a car. So far we've discovered the most complicated ways to order Subway and to arrange blankets, pillows, and bags of snacks in the overly-packed vehicle. We had car trouble not even a third of our way down south and had to stay in a hotel that was also housing a couple hundred drunken monster-truck rally fans. (I was prepared to fight for my continental breakfast).

The trip is highlighted thus far by Erika almost popping one of our tires on a curb, me almost killing everybody merging onto the expressway, and our family pulling up to the wrong house at 1am.

Despite all of the complications and the Beverly-Hillbilly methodology of transportation, I realized that there is nothing else I'd rather be doing, and literally no where else I'd rather be.

My biggest worries right now consist of doing a bit of light reading and figuring out how many sodas I owe Weston. (Stupid "jinx" game...)

This is, in many ways, my last sojourn into childhood.

A choice.

I choose light where darkness infiltrates
and coldness freezes --static-- tears etched in ice.
I choose to cast my soul to the mourning light and past into the afternoon.

Translucent Woman

-translucent woman-
we see her heart
-translucent woman-
and growing fainter
becomes like a cold dark spot in space
blackness blotting out the stars and
pulling in
pulling inward
She folds inward
and disappears into herself
collapsing in her own gravity
And stars streak across time like searing streams of burning light
and mark the face of the night sky
And suns burst with silent swells and beating lashes
And air is sucked from the deepest fabric
of the darkest reach
in the coldest cloud
of the most ancient dust.
And it is this dust that makes her solid,
once more.

Incandescent

I did my best, it wasn't much
couldn't feel so I tried to touch
...
And even though it all went wrong I stand before the Lord of song
with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah...

The days rolling over into heaps of sand
notes play music, sweet and biting and beads of blood
like rubies in my body a body of jewels and worth and jewels and worth

Don't touch me.

Kneel before the Lord of Love and grovel and beg and uncover yourself from shame and fear and pain and tears and kneel before the Lord of Love.

And when it's right there will be color and maybe butterflies and maybe we'll hear the flutter of angel wings like beautiful turtle doves and we'll all rise with the sun and bathe in white light and sing the sweetness in our souls and drink nectar from buttercups.

And then you can touch me, maybe, lightly, with your finger tips. And that will be all. And we'll watch the white roses wilt and die.