now less in telling more I say in shouting down the kings of heaven fast-fallen angels now here bidden falsely dealing unclaimed wisdom do this do that and don’t run with scissors (here she smokes a cigarette, unfiltered) hello ms. pot, hello dear kettle.
Echo of thunder and those sirens going off and you and I will have to talk since past misdeeds are buried in shallow graves - should’ve known, should’ve guessed - grew those flowers out of old bones and rotting flesh.
Well, this is unexpected - running into you here, among the morning glories, the wild iris and the river weeds. I thought you’d gone south for the indefinite future. I’ve been wading in the shallows since you left, hair undone and mud on the hem of my dress. But it’s this sort of luck that wills us forward and makes us believe in fairy tales and ghost stories. Fate entangles us with such iron-latched fingers, caught in a current, spinning on to some watershed ending.
…bastards. Many hands make light work and this time I’ll peel the rind— citrus spray in a couple cupfuls of sunshine dew drops off my brow like blood from a festered wound cried out when the bag of flour exploded. Rage dissolved like oil in water when we took out the kitchen knives and went hunting.
I need howling winds and stormy waters lightning strikes and the hum of morning (the soft sound of flower petals unfurling) and stars exploding! But mostly, strumming strings, scratching pens, hands unfolding.
Give me a break, you damn little fool— don’t drown in the spontaneity of trouble and tribulations served up hot and ready to go. It never stops, you know? Weeds in the flowerbed, bits of glass in the stew.
It’s all trouble at every corner and I’ve got that clammy, wind o’ the mist feeling that someone’s following us rather closely. The zodiac has been watered down, boiled in onions and there’s nobody left who can speak in fluent omens. The newspaper might feature an article about it as long as the death toll and expected destruction is extravagant.
In the pale face of the full moon, staring down all the trouble and menace that mother-of-pearl gleam will bring, I sense a shift in the paradigm, a rocking of the ebb and flow— nothing can be so silver and not tarnish, nothing can be so white and not bleed.
Rooks and herons, kings and beggar men— made weak by sloth and greed and fools in the face of temptation. A drink for my brothers now and a nod to their better days when honor meant something and slaying dragons was commonplace.
She saw all her life boil and simmer away— the sugar turned a gruesome black as it burned beyond caramelizing. The man beside her hesitated to speak, to lighten the catastrophe, unsure in her presence and useless in the kitchen, his skill set measured out in spoonfuls of coffee beans.
Twigs, maple and witch hazel mucking around in the mud and mire of dawn in the violet woods, all melting under a pale, yellow and pre-vernal sun, spill-off into snow-crusted puddles and hear the water run? Something’s coming, something’s begun.
Sullen silence festers smartly and fighting the current is a lesson in futility you’ve got to f a l l with the weary waste of it all lay your head on down feather pillows and sleep the sadder thoughts off.
All leaves and dust crumbled up and let loose to fly from my palm, criss-crossed by lines that speak in riddles after seven years of silence & broken mirrors & scars because of it— I was dragged into this world and I’ll be dragged out of it.
This whole idea of lions and lambs, soft, white wool and golden waves of grain, lends little to prove— statistics being what they are and March proving in every way a fickle and vicious bitch of a season.
Bound in vows, I cannot break— the nearness of this place and these four white walls box me in as I stand in absolute stillness of spirit convinced that one step either way will draw the worst kind of attention.
Oh, I’d like to burn it all down and oh, I’d like to see myself out and walk up and away, into the green hills and the greener valleys that await the ragged and lachrymose days that must precede a homecoming, with you and your glass of whiskey waiting on the porch steps to celebrate.
There’s an illusion of cents for dollars, pick ‘em up and throw them out. We don’t have time to make a killing— murder is a time-sensitive subject (well, I’m sure) and the laundry’s been piling up for days and I don’t care, I just don’t care if I’m missing the forest for the trees, a windfall is a catchall phrase rather, I’d rather not be here when that hurricane wreaks the place.
I wish I was a thousand miles away— a hundred thousand miles away— wrapped up in an afghan on an eastward facing porch step, sun warm on my face, breeze mild in my honey-colored hair, black coffee in my hands steaming, birds singing, grass swaying and you sitting on the step beside me, elbows on your knees, chin in your hands, your lips smirking because we ran away and got away with it.
Spit on the mirror— it’s all illusion anyway. Toss your hair and bat those eyes despite the smile lines already crinkling, like crumpled paper, at the sides of your mouth and the edge of your eyes, wear them with pride— the battle scars of kind souls and the truly optimistic.
now—no less in telling more I say in shouting down the kings of heaven fast-fallen angels now here bidden falsely dealing unclaimed wisdom do this do that and don’t run with scissors (here she smokes a cigarette, unfiltered) it’s all hello ms. pot & how are you, dear kettle?