Published in Canyon Voices 2011: Dream-ribbon

Dream-ribbon

 

 

Every night I take another pull from the spool.

My dream-ribbon unwinds, a toboggan rolling off a waterfall.

 

noisome clouds adorn the quiet evening.

my desolate thoughts drift insensate;

as I turn, the furniture is upset

a rug clenches and slides

there is a creaking and squeaking

an earthquake’s grumble of thunder

they are as particles wafting out of my ear.

My interior design is rambunctious and usurped.

 

Finally it glistens below the skein

a hollow tube maneuvers and a liquid worm

encrusted with a black film that trails in its wake

and the solid form of a soft creature below untouchable

i fiercely nibble at the rope its train against the naked sky

suspended over the chasm courting emptiness

swallowing the throb hard the cold blue fingers

the empires of flesh and revolting hands

to be one instant longer without breath in view

toes spread the clasping clip of disillusioned wind

the crimson eyes spinning

the sickle-shaped moon

a splash in darkness

ripped through an abyss

unholy angelic deluge

the kiss of goodbye wind.

a hollow edge of  a seashell

a crust of salt on the brim of an overturned hat

flutter butterfly faces out of liquid sunshine

stumbling toward the narrow breakway

fathomless depths of shadows –

One more soul-shard pawned off

the tickering spool, I die a little

it can only tick so far…

 

I wonder my eyes open so easily.

 

Published in Lux Undergrad Magazine 2011: No Words Come Forth

No Words Come

 

You may find enough has come

to make this barren morning

 

the milk swirls in a teacup

and separates the music spirals

into your ductile membrane

 

You find that enough has come

from doting over datebooks on every page

of which is printed a bite-sized tidbit

of “wisdom”

 

You find enough breath at the bottom

the milk spreads out and blossoms

a bilious fomentation of words

mingling graveyard dancing thoughts

a clotted dune trickles into the pit

 

the moment of your demise

you can’t think of anything catchy

but stare out with blank eyes;

the hills catch falling boughs

a sunrise and your last vows

 

a tempest-tossed teacup ascends

unsteady rising in rawness

to the horizon of your eyes

it leaves a burning wet mustache

and an aching silence