The Hills Have Blindsides
A flock of hideous birds float through the wind. I feel these crows in shriveled fur,
Their flight, an old man’s crippled slur.
They congregate together
Cross-eyed and angry
To yell from the diaphragm,
Your rebellion is based on ignorance!
These were feathers from the same war. All brewed up and steamed together, Before peace became a relevant idea.
In caskets, they lay
All purpled – in art
Waiting for someone to dance and sing –
With the bells ringing from the heart
After all the diseases sink in their talons Then gnashing and biting begins.
When the prettiest star waves you in
To meet God or the jealousies of all sins, They roll up those hills to see clarity.
The problem in all the darkness
Is not within your peripheral understanding. The hills have blindsides,
When you’re looking for Jesus
When you’re looking for Jesus
Photo by Evan Wise (unsplash)
Also published by Icefloe Press
Let it Be Cindy’s Pain, Not Yours
Cindy shall walk in when you are shaking and queasy,
After your fall of Rome
In a blue skirt, she changes out by the torn curtains. Without care from the peeping Toms
She’s got the eyes of a starving tiger.
And finding yourself in that blood orange revenge As you kiss away the letters to stray hands. She never wears red, but today Her dress is for a wet crimson death.
She will leave you in prayer in the frosty room.
In many hours reading the sadness of Hermann Hesse
She will weave in the stream of lies
The waters that drown the appendages of a once muscular tree.
So Cindy wears the chains.
The Silver pistol earrings
The eclipsing sun can’t hide Rodeo Drive
Where she struts around like a dimestore Bettie Page
She often dreams of her last breath
And she just stares at you like a trapped tiger.
Under some madman’s guidance and brainwashing. You are the one with the inheritance.
The diamonds and bangles, God willing.
The dialysis, the time is coming soon Where is the nurse, to the mystery of men? That runs the house like a tattoo parlor
Is tonight your last night as the hunted?
Let it be Cindy’s Pain, Not yours, not the flowers.
It’ll be hers in this curse
I’ve willed her in these Post-traumatic rebound pastures.
Photo by Emma Trevisan
The cold floats over my dying energy
Shedding the ghosts from my skin
My breath has left a sticky gloss –
Over the plastic thin shoebox windowpane.
My last breath in the stained carpets of poverty.
The wind tunnels through the apartments
Like a storm, like a voice
That rips through my eardrum
They whisper the suicides to me
Like the embracing kiss of all seven archangels
To greet God in the corner
Behind the burning candles
That attempt to save me
My hands are clammy
And the shadows are already in unison to dance
Dance my freedom away
From this plane
From the rags of this old shoebox The conquering of another peasant.
also published on Icefloe Press
photo by Cody Chan
Let us all, stand by our baskets of fruit
That the rain and sunlight bathed out for us to dine.
I want to leave aside the sidewalks that burn
I want to wash away the pain that lives in my wrinkles.
I want the depressants to live behind the veils
And watch the birds fly from North to South and back again.
I want the suicide to climb back over the fence
While I think about the comfort of skin
While I blanket my mind with the thoughts of sweet breath.
Leave a war-cry
Echo back in the canyons
That I shall never want to see again
Leave the glass bottles on the edge,
To never feel the wind tip them over the ridges.
I want to remain by this fruit basket
To close my eyes
And reunite me with the loves that hold me
In tenderness, they have passed
I feel them again, my tears must obey
I must obey to put those bottles away.
And live for the saccharine.
from “New Disease Streets” and also was published online on Icefloe Press
photo by Karolina Kolodziejczak
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