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.