On Following The South Star

Hey, tell me
doyouwantto
start reinventing
?
We could
replace our eyeballs with googly eyes
and waste time creating constellations
.We can count out of order
and mis-teach young children
,we could organize library books
by book jacket color
.You could be minister of silliness
,and I could be a carousel
.We could print newspapers
of entirely comics and crosswords
,and jump on the sofas until someone gets hurt
.Doyouwantto
defy, define, disfigure
the social structure
morph it into some horrible ugly creature
that only a mother could love
.(and how we will love it)
!
And if we focus on
maps that lead to nowhere
and face-making contests
with the toddlers on the bus
,we might not notice
run in my stockings, the
hole in your hat,
and we could make pictures out of
the cracks in the paint,
and find shapes
in the grayblack clouds
that are slowly encroaching.

Antimetronome

Your heart beat is keeping me up
Your breathing misaligned with mine
the clashing pattern is drilling through my pores

It’s too hot
the stifling heat
rising through the wooden floorboards
and your heavy body
is trapping me in

I see your jacket
draped over the back of the chair
once I found it
adorably oversized
but lately the dragging sleeves
and too-broad shoulders
are an un-fulfilled promise,
empty space you don’t quite reach

I pry myself from your arms
-once protective, now dead weight-
and hear my own bare feet kissing the floor
(cool relief)

Out the window
I see the dimmest glimmer
of where pink will soon burst to life
dusting the horizon

a glass of water from the tap
tipping toes all the way back
and blinking eyes open, you smile
and it drills through my poresbonesheartlungs

I lay back down
and try desperately to sync my breathing with yours.

Consumption


she works
creating lands of make-believe
plays
taking away what should be there
adding and juxtaposing what should not

fantasy dribbling out of a leaky head
spilling onto a page
distorted images pulling through the eyes
(turning them the most magnificent green)
and sticking like candle wax
to where reality should be

and when conversation becomes too dull for her,
she looks to her hands
in a way that I can tell
she will never look at anything else.

he feels
music passing through him
seeping into his veins, it
spiderwebs down his arms
pooling at his fingertips
blossoming purple just under the skin.
his fingers start to taptaptap
like a metal detector
seeking the strings to make the incision
until the music pours out
heart-wrenching and beautiful

in polite company
he is asked about that "music thing"
"how's that going?" big goofy grins
and he searches for words
knowing he can't make them understand.

through my ceiling tiles
foot prints
tiny pit-pat rats, mice
speeding in circles-startled by each other
gnawing on wires

and above them
I’m tracing your steps
heavy today
something is bearing down on you
pushing on your sternum
wrapping around your spine
tugging at your toes

screech of chair legs
(belligerence)
you stand up
the cushion gasps
you sit down
the cushion sighs

further away, a door opens.
another set of feet
light, unassuming, tentative
c l o s e r c l o serclose
muffled sounds
“mrfgghblmf?”
“mrrmf.”
“mrhrmbmf? hmmrbnsoomf, fmmbrgl…”
“mrrfgd! hrmmffggh!”
fartherfa r t h e r f a r gone

a door shuts
I'm suddenly grateful
for the stairs and the chairs
and the rugs and the rats
between your heavy feet and I.

Worth Two In The Bush

She left the hospital
her nose tube dragging behind her
like some sort of pathetic leash

she couldn’t take the build-up
of her words
they circled around and around
pressing against her eyeballs
(they bulged out, straining)
and pushing hard against
her cracked scarred lips

only a grunt came out
and we looked at her
pitying
poor thing
poor animal

But her words were piling up
growing out through her yellow nails
her graying hair

she didn’t get far
and we found her
a terrible cold smile
she was
breathless on the pavement
there were feathers in her clenched fist
(she had finally
let them go)

Ankle’s Pioneers

I followed them
I didn’t know where
we
were going I just knew
they
seemed to have a plan and
I
had an empty space and
an unmarked map
that said
I should follow

about halfway through
they abandoned shoes
not to be bound
by the sound of their
(souls) slapping against pavement

(I think it broke their tender hearts)

naked though, they were
beautiful
flesh wound over bones, sculpted
perfect arc(he)s and slopes
dipping and rising
toes proudly pointing to the sky
the winding lines
(their internal rivers)
purple made green under
the skin that only the day before
I had called my own

Liberated by their new
sensitivity to
touch I think they moved
more gracefully or pointedly
or gracefully pointed
(not pointedly graceful)
and texture became a member
of our investigative party

So sure of themselves
until
I looked
away from them, distracted
And I realized
(they) abandoned (me)
as I was startled by
a stumble
and I looked down
and I was whole again
and they were gone

(I do not forget our seperation
but something tells me not to try to recreate it.)

Coziness

There's something deliciously indulgent about staying home sick. It's like an excuse to treat yourself right, and to do all the nice things you usually neglect. Apart from the coughing sneezing runny nosing headaching blugh-ness of this weekend, it's been nice eating soup and drawing and watching bad tv and listening to nice music and snuggling with my favorite blanket.
Although tonight I will probably have to start to do Actual Work because I have a lot of homework, and since I'm missing school on monday for JewThings I should probably start the frantic catch-up process a little early.

But for now, Roald Dahl and painting, hurray!



Once I feel better I think I'd like to spend a day next weekend thrift-store hunting. I'll ready my harpoon and read up on Silly Hat Calls.


S'all for now!