Sainthood

Even after your last exit,
I’ve yet to finish your altar.
It has become vast.
I included all manner of things to make it more meaningful.
I acquired by the pile,
fast,
And at first, I was stealthy—
Hair pins, needles, rusted coins, wine bottles,
Acute angles of broken mirrors and bottle caps without words.
I was good.
I traveled north to find the perfect pine needle
But it died before I returned and, still, I kept it.

The first of many guests arrived,
And while some never left,
I didn’t complain.
They brought things,
Added to the art.
They played music and it allowed me to dance with a posse of rodents
Who came bearing gifts—
Shopping carts, toilet seats made out of faux wood,
Pottery and silver teeth.
I was onto something delicate.

I ate fever-bush for strength,
Consulted daily with the sorceress from the brothel across the street.
She told me to look for you
In the stark pillows of each hour.
I extinguished the light,
Kept a silent vigil.
The roaches rioted;
They tore apart the wheels of your chariot,
Chewed the immaculate symbols of the most potent prayers,
Gave wings to the drums ,
And together they flew to where you had gone.

It was a most flawless betrayal,
Executed at night.

Break

My feet are cold;
That is the constant.

Impotence.

My fingers beat a tune
From the scratches of Red Maroon
Fingernail polish that chip on principle.
I do not abide fear.

I am fearful;
That too is constant.

Sun-Dried To-ma-toes

Borrowed decadende sang in my prepubecscent body as I contemplated
the depths of taste.
A red moment lush with the magnitude of near flight
fleshy rich fruit totured and mumified
Pungent and aqcuired
Depth packaged in secret guilt.
I felt pleasure in unshared senses,
Righteous claiming,
A wealthy mimickry of self.

Sad Interloper

The guitar, unheard, is to be imagined as
Sweet evening is speeding to unfold
Before noon has reached its peak.
The hiccups of time are melding into
The very moment when the subject, arrived,
Forgets the purpose of the journey
Which, is reason, that cannot be remembered.

Flying forward smoky signals,
A tamed beginning with a protruding sternum
Bends to a massive figure.
The fading notes of past instance
Are cease-start inside of a mouth so small
That it must have been formed yesterday.

The song is minor, trembling
Each chord tragic
With forewarning
For the intangible moment before
Life sparks beneath thin threads of hair—
It moves a corpse,
Tenured inside the bowels of her kin.
She wears pigtails,
A patchwork of blues
And a belly of rocks,
Beneath translucent skin.

There is no powder on my feet

If you come looking for me,

I’m just a ways down yonder—forgive me, I shed my clothes.

My feet are clean,

And skin is jaundiced—

Yellow as it suffers stagnation

It contemplates inaction.

My palms are cemented inside the earth

Where the wind chafes my knotted spine.

My breasts hang heaviest,

They sway me ‘round my sphere—tormented.

Here I suffer.

Now, I watch

—and I am planning your song of welcome.

I will free you my jailer if you bring me my spirit

And together we will pray and eat

From the earth that I am chained

We will dance, in tandem, on the streets of Ash

Where we will stir up sacred powder and

Find healing on foot.