Waking Suddenly

Night particles seemed to cast broader spells as vast defenses to the needs of offspring and pages of righteousness she devoured. Waking suddenly this night with the thoughts of a genderless child somewhere mucking through swamps of parental baggage, she touches the sweat between her breasts thinking of laughing artists toting brushes; their armour armor raised in quietly shielded sarcasms of brushstroke.

Twisting in coverlets she reads a child's book. It is the tale of manic creative masks, life selections and objections that slide beneath consciousness’s sight. Choosing course chants to recite steady in the safety of her sanctioned bed, she avoids cool tiles that point to loneliness, icy windows that open to a place that functions it seems out there, in her, for her. Sirens repel her in a world desolate of masculine lines and deep rumbling. She cast them to numbness and turns her head.

The worn clichés of this night's dreams haunt her like young wallflowers in yellow dresses plastered against torn wallpaper, virgins big-eyed waiting for rings, marked bodies and babies to hold; a human melding proving worth and roping swine by their throats.

Never painted canvases float above her; she carries them through the halls of her duties, the lines of her consumption, the dreams of her never if only ironies. Colors never focused, only lines and forms and the conception of egg passions verses sperm wanderings.

Secluded words and lyrics sloughing off layers of her unused skin until blood spotted punctuation marks decorate her knees, her elbows, the in-between places nobody noticed. She prefers it this way as her alone equated asylum in her internal algebra. This safe place stroked her in places no one could reach, not her stacks of books , not the him hymns that wandered through her forehead, pulsing under her right eye, not the imaginary long dead cat purring near her feet sucking his own tail in soft nurturing repetition.

Grasping her notebook she writes unpolished far beneath shining metaphor or brilliance. She writes free of a critic or a distinguished eye. Awareness that the one that matters left this place long ago as

time

crumbles

down

her

spine

The bowl at her bedside reminds her of cherries before season. She spits make-believe pits to the floor and watches as they travel through miles of carpeted forest finding their way to polished wood floors hoping to be kicked into waiting fertile soil elsewhere, anywhere.

Her closet remained empty tonight. She can see the space, the emptiness that confirms that she never was one to leave a mark

may, 2011

Mama Never Said… that what ya don’t know tastes like honey (voice somewhere)

so ya a bored pretty girl with shallow swimmin’ eyes

mama never taught ya ‘bout ta-morrow

mama was cursin’ ‘long with the blues guitar

so ya a naked little thing are ya?

mama never taught ya that bare skin always hides

mama never cared to show ya that ya heart can’t cry

not proper

like

not like that

ya see-

it be in the intention

time blaze burns out those subtle bedroom lies

little girl thighs

ya gonna age precious one

ya gonna wither

mama never taught ya that all things pass

ya can't hold on to a perfect thing

not a clean shaved patch

not a tight snatch

not a skinned knee

not a sparkly gem

not a favorite poem

not a dirty whisper

we die

that body does

she didn’t tell ya did she?

ya can't make makin’ love fix what mama never gave ya

‘cuz mama gazed away high

turn ya head weary bombshell

ya ain’t a superstar

ya an aging flasher

high in ya own reflection

let your bird wings out

let your feather hair blow

mama never taught ya

mama never taught ya

what you need to know

star light is yours

beyond the flash of a hunter’s knife

don’t cut ya-self -up-

-just look up

& GAZZZZZZE in

mama never taught ya `bout the sky

mama never taught ya that ya pretty little body is gonna die

mama never taught ya

what ya needed to know