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.