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Literature Text
I want to scream in color,
tearing at my chest so that
my heart shows the spectrum of self.
Take the reds and throw them
on the blank wall behind me,
I don't need that shade on my conscience
any more.
Find your blues and
color my irises with them,
I just want to see the world
in anything but greyscale.
Green sits in my chest,
let it settle there before
I finally have the courage to evict it.
Purple is my heart,
you've wounded me.
tearing at my chest so that
my heart shows the spectrum of self.
Take the reds and throw them
on the blank wall behind me,
I don't need that shade on my conscience
any more.
Find your blues and
color my irises with them,
I just want to see the world
in anything but greyscale.
Green sits in my chest,
let it settle there before
I finally have the courage to evict it.
Purple is my heart,
you've wounded me.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
after the tone
visiting hours are permanently over. goodbyes by voice mail goodbyes by cassette tape or too late for tangible correspondence; now by way of desperate prayer the gasp then, to heaven when hope collapses, the interrupted hallelujah, and all the sacrilege in that silence. transient transforms into endless quarantine -- isolation by the veil of death.
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
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Another emotional poem! Felt so good to write this one!
Comments5
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I absolutely love this one. So much. 