I am yours and we are dancing
we levitate on Neptune
across its frozen oceans
dancing beneath stars
that burst into jewels
clinging to your dress, twirling,
forming moons from nothing
and comets at your fingertips
you glide along the sky
so beautiful I find myself
adrift in your orbit
that pulls me whichever way
you will it
and I will find Saturn
to gift you his rings
but you deserve much more
and I will give you everything
because you give me love
like cosmic fireworks
This poem is borne from the idea of a creature that would be able to travel into our minds. What would it think about our deepest thoughts?
But this is also just me practicing structured(ish) poetry by limiting myself to eleven syllables for each line. But it’s a loose rule since the structure breaks apart a few times. I tried my best to develop the poem’s fantasy elements so that it’s at the very least least fairy tale-adjacent.
~
In the cesspool of my dreams a shadow prowls
leafing through my memories, it hums in thought,
pausing at each page turned, it raises a brow,
weighing each scene’s absurdity— all for naught.
“A dreadful, sinful person,” it must presume.
Alas, this is the shadow prowler’s sole role,
deterge, depurate those degenerate tombs—
tombes of our memories, that twin to our souls.
But back to me and my character. It’s foul—
or at least so the prowler presumes. It’s right.
Fruit pluckers like I shall be the fall of all.
Best to scourge my rot, all my blights extradite.
So the prowler gouges that meat of my mind,
and carefully bleeds it— drip by drip go by.
Back into me it pours nectar so sublime.
Golden, untainted virtue to gratify
those parents that left me dry
when I told them that one time
of lost dignity and pride
when I sold love for mere dimes
they said they’d rather I died
than have some foul sinner child . . .
At this page, the shadow prowler lays in wait.
Perhaps, its heart twinges with sweet sympathy.
Perhaps, I would be ever so fortunate.
But it’s too late. The nectar swallows fully.
Thus, I’m drowning in its makeshift chastity.
Birthing my new entity and sealing it
where Vice pricked continuous punctures in me.
The shadow prowler retreats when my mind is cleansed and pure like a baby’s.
The microbiome is important
All manner of mushrooms sprout
Graphite mycelium merging with
Red parallel lines of soil
Spirals bound to spiral-bound paper
Spinning further with each need to
Focus and distract oneself
And on those festive occasions
You’ll find pumpkins, snowflakes, hearts
Technically vestigial, but still enjoyed
And four corners become eight as the page is
Folded and folded and folded and folded
Until the edges are torn
Piling up, scraps of snow on a paper mountain
Oh
Right
There are some words too
What’s a spikeball?
It’s where you take the ball and you spike it, dear.
Scheels, 2:30PM, 1/6/2024
humans are attracted to circles. they are soft, rounded, happy. an evolutionary tactic, or implicit bias? you think it is the former, that round things are less likely to bite, that pointy things hurt. i tell you that bullets used to be round as well. perfect spheres, lodged into tree trunks and muscle mass and the soft dirt that buries it like a seed. one day it will grow into a beautiful tree, with orange-veined bark and branches that wrap arguments in cloth. they have a name for that today: weeping willow.
Donate it, it’s thirty-one cents. I don’t need thirty-one cents, I already have a lot of cents.
Chipotle, 2:00PM, 1/14/2024
when we dream, we do it by replacing sight with touch. eyes closed, mouth open, arms out…we have replaced shooting stars with coins and candles: a tangible dream, a manifestation we can hold. the flame, the spin of the metal, a drop of water in the rain. in the future there will be fables written about fountains: a thief robs the trevi, heart of rome, and must fulfill the desires each coin represents. thirty-one wishes? one for each day of the month. pennies on the dollar — the sun will shine once more.
Why do you ask odd questions?
Why do you give odd answers?
That’s an odd question!
The Shelter, 7:00PM, 1/28/2024
the politician, modern-day sphinx, speaks in riddles. the figure in the frame has glowing white teeth, slightly yellowed. perhaps it is from the elements or the urine of the minority, or perhaps it is intentional — picture the candidates among the common people, hardworking farmers, suntans and crooked teeth from where the wheat slips though the cracks. i imagine the paws of the sphinx cupping a palm of water, a vision of truth broken in ripples. slipping through the cracks, indeed.
In the garden
I searched for a flower
that reminded me of you
aster
begonias
carnations
chrysanthemums
cosmos
dahlias
daisies
hydrangeas
irises
lavender
lilacs
lilies
lotus
marigolds
orchids
peonies
poppies
roses
sunflowers
tulips
zinnias
but none were quite right
because I remember you said
you don’t like flowers
Going below the cold
The snow churned by a hundred
Trails cut through the slush
Into the pink neon on
Black ceilings and white tiles
Taking the time to
Work as a trio, cutting the
Lights, always night and day
Count the phobias skittering across the
Screen: spider, cicada, wasp, mosquito
See how far I can stretch a
Line of paper from me to the
Machines pulling me closer
Walk the rows of pinball lights showing
Rings, monsters, castles, in every
Corner awash in their glow
Balance dragons together on plastic skateboards
In the cool of the tables behind the stairs
And just breathe
