Poems

"[A quick epistemological lesson:   pain is a splinter,]"

A quick epistemological lesson:   pain is a splinter, which is also the
origin of the profane--look, a sin parade!   I'll be the mayor, you Miss
Pangaea with a sash of golden leaves.   Your dress, the color of a coal
seam, reminds me that shade is a slow remedy for the checkerboard of
blisters on my shoulders.   Aloe is more expedient, but cactus needles
are the splinter's more malevolent cousins.   Tell me a story about
icebergs.   Purse your lips to replicate a northern wind.   Better yet,
give our only child a basket and send her north.   She'll return home
married, basket heavy with apples, or frostburned black, wicker worn
as another layer of clothes.   Either way, she'll make her father
proud.

 

"[Your diary reads echoes of scimitars]"

Your diary reads echoes of scimitars over and over.   This is why
history must be written after the initial trauma.   Only now can you
appreciate the silence that is our burning house.   Who can blame them?
  Their preprogrammed yar! reflex, their unkempt hair and beards
designed to hide their single dream:   that their vessel is the
glass-encased model afloat on a sea of golden liquor.   After all,
that's why we paved our street in pyrite, why no resident fled at
night with a donkey laden in treasure.   We have given them our
happiness, which is a smile that only fades when faced with questions.

"[This is a microscope, the eyes God kept for Himself.]"

This is a microscope, the eyes God kept for Himself.

When burdened with judgement, clarity is a vital witness.

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When magnified, what isn't written in braille?

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You argue that, like old-fashioned fast food restaurants decorated
orange and brown, labyrinths must display a gallery of thorns to keep
the trapped moving, uncomfortable.   But what about drought, an
over-zealous hedge trimmer?   The whole industry is too easily
threatened.   Now fingerprints . . .

A charcoal sketch, a page of ink-stained paper demonstrate the flaw
with fingerprints:   finding a way in.

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The diagnosis is cancer.   Or mud stain.   This washcloth has the
answer, though the cotton muffles the subtle music of your body.

 

"[The signal is a firecracker's fracture, the first layer]"

The signal is a firecracker's fracture, the first layer of dusk that
suppressed day.   When my midday slumber ends, I see you as any other
creature, spit-shined teeth and all.

Did I mention a siren so distant and quiet, you're not sure it's approaching?

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Your toe traces the                   tap                 tap                 tap          of the symbol.   We imagine a
letter composed entirely of monosyllabic words.

Love                 love                 love           with so much left unwritten.

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A bottle of water can act as a laminate.

It's up to me to remember, remember.

Remember.

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Your to-do list last week:   manicure, pedicure, facial exfoliation,

perm, and makeup application.

The most beautiful signature should be your corpse.

 

"[Squeeze the color from my irises into a vial]"

Squeeze the color from my irises into a vial and wear it always.

I almost reneged when the coroner said there was no machine for this,
handed me warm tweezers.   But I'd never again see the sky reflect off
a tower of pure window the same way.

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My personal promise:   to fill enough Thank You For Shopping With Us

bags to avoid ever finding home.

Until my heart adjusts, the chain will constantly pulse with life.

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A stranded jellyfish--did you ever try one as sushi?   I open a package
of your chopsticks, place them as a ? on the beach.   Hope the ocean
finishes its project.

 

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