There is something decidedly intoxicating about the smell of a warm rain
Something about the mingling scent of damp asphalt and disturbed dust
And the fat pattering of droplets on flat, sun-beaten leaves
That drives away the flies and coaxes a relieved sigh of steam from the pavements.
There is a fly in this house
That wont let me sleep.
As soon as my eyelids grow heavy enough to shut again
It comes buzzing around like a saw
Trying to cut its way into my ear.
I armor my orifices with blankets
In the hopes of anesthetizing myself to the sound
And I suffocate beneath their cotton weight.
Pick the yarn loose from the thumb of my mitten
And let the glove unravel
I’m losing faith in these pearled stitches
Weave it back and forth between our fingers like a loom
Pull it taut until our fingertips pulse with blood too hot
Palms pressed tight as pennies to a train track
Keep your arm and your heart pumping with mine
Hold me too tight and drag along your heavy breath
Suck the biting cold clouds back in as soon as they form
The squalls are frigid but we can’t stop here
The dead leaves shudder too loudly in the gusts
We’ll make a hidden fire somewhere the wind can’t blow
The bears are not yet hibernating
The coyotes are still weeping
It’s not safe out here tonight
And I can’t tell which one of us is trembling
I’m planning for stability. I’m not here to
Or to make waves.
What could I be? Well, lots of things.
Jack of all trades, master of none.
Oh, but I could be if I wanted!
Could be what?
Whatever you need, I guess.
I could be the referee that breaks up the water cooler gossip.
I could be the guardian of the paper bag lunches.
I could be the mint bowl monitor and keep it full and lush.
Whatever is there is for me to do.
Filling in cracks. Plugging up holes. Picking up slack.
I could be what you need
As soon as I figure out what
There’s a skyline in her lashes.
Thick, curling silhouettes of buildings curve upwards towards a brow-capped sky
That shimmers blue in the light.
Beneath the charcoal asphalt of her lid is a sinkhole.
It’s bottomless, ringed in green grass that’s patchy
With unwatered flecks of brown.
You can see where the subways venture towards the suburbs
Splaying outwards like the feet of crows.
It took years of laughter to lay down those lines
But the craftsmanship is so admirable that I could ride them anywhere.
A bubbling ‘ha’ signals the arrival of another train to the station
And I’m left debating if I want to catch it
Or throw myself into that endless sinkhole a little longer.
Parchment is the doorway to opportunity.
Not just what’s written on it
But what it can become.
Tell ten people to make a snowflake
And each will fold and cut the paper differently.
Each is unique, like the people who craft them.
Each is the work of an artisan.
Each set of hands is skilled.
So why don’t my snowflakes
Look like anything other than
Old faxes and wasted copies?
She gave me gold thread
And a kiss in her stead
And with weighted breath said
‘Alright, go ahead’.
So inwards I tread
Through the maze of my head
From which I had fled
To find the Minotaur dead.
With a throat full of lead
I see I’m misled
For the valor ahead
Gave me corpses instead.
Something evil has spread
Something dark and unsaid
A thing fat and fed
That keeps sleep from my bed.
My gut writhes
Slick with the mucus of impalpability
Push outwards as if squeezed by birthing pains.
Stretch every orifice in a mad surge.
The tendrils soldier on,
Determined to build up the hoard
It has accumulated over time.
A relentless beast hoarding virgin sacrifices.
All are abducted and pulled inwards.
It craves digestion
For fear of eating itself.
If I try to leave, she tries to push me
back inside. Slams doors in my face and tries to cave
the windows in. She tears at my hair and tries to rip the
clothes from my body like a drunken lover. If I walk too quickly
to escape, she spits hot desert sand in my eyes
and shoves me harder. Sometimes she throws things.
She once grew so angry that she crushed a
parked car beneath the weight of
a tree limb too aged and beaten
to stand up to her
She takes the wheel
from my hands when we
drive and threatens to shoulder me if I
don’t fight her hard enough. She kicks rocks
across my windshield and tries to break in at the idea of
someone moving against her. She claws at my tires and
tosses other drivers at me in the hopes that they
won’t fight her as much as I do.
And yet, for all her tantrums
For all her howling, wailing, and snarling
No creature could breathe such vitality. Such life.
Into these old bones. Old wings.
Pulled too gruffly into the
gravity of the earth
In a desert of horned rams and maned lions
An oasis pooled,
But the Zebras -
Black, White, but never grey –
Brayed and kicked and condemned it to be
“No creature shall drink from this
Pool of Putrescence!”
They whinnied at
Who did not drink, but only bathed.
Who did not drink, but only rolled in mud.
Who did not drink, but only grazed from the nearby grass.
Who, with dwindling patience, bellowed back
“Get out of my way!
I have a yeast infection!”