spring birth

the periwinkle buds sparkle

sprouting like popcorn or pimples

butterflies break

out dark womb

unfolding papery orange limbs

she shot out into arms that waited for

her

birth broke records of ancient

earthen tupperware, volcanic store

too valuable to treasure too

priceless to score.

 

 

 

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people this people that

calloused lions hunt clouds hung too high

hungry ocean swallows sky

little girl next door swings

big tree holding her sings

swigs of yesterday sipped slowly sigh

maybe it’s time to say goodbye.

 

he hangs his head, like droopy ice cream

drips with summer haze and

too many tips

from people this and people that

saying here but running there

confusion like a jello ship

 

simple like baby fingernails and

snailmail why isn’t the color

purple

seen by flying things

sometimes we

make up

what we think.

 

starving lions like

protruding ribs and stares

neglect and scares

what if they could see

what they’ve done to me

 

it’s time

say goodbye.

stream of thought

berry blisters and chocolate Sunday’s melt like ice mirrors in potholes and pocks. grace writes my name in opaque fluff through periwinkle lace, calls to me in the musty mold of depression and vomit. a circle of unicyclists, people trying to pass through mountains with hand drills, and I’m there, too. my heart’s in my hand, shiny pointy glass shattered in six billion two shards reflecting my somber mask, droplets pool on the pieces stillborn like an ancient swamp, preserved and stuck, stoic and sad. I smell the smell for the first time I’ve breathed. No, that’s a lie. I smell it again, again. Maybe yet to come more. The smell of hospital wafts like chemicated medicated chalk rubber gloves, slick and concealing skin, hiding what lies below every throb. discreet. (or so they think). no hospital gown—that other lie of a dress, like undressed mess bare and raw before the front of accreditation.  the back ties barely glued conceal nothing as I sit square and cold like people do in waiting rooms, rocking themselves like mothers and moving sloths, remember. Just let it go, the fussy, hungry woman before me dictated. inject this in the spiral notebook spine holding you up some days: go to bed and rest, let go and dissect yourself until you come to the beginning of the circle.

last inhale

do  you know the leaves’ names (personal–not scientific)

in class of 1683?

how many breaths are left in your lung pouches?

esophagus closes like a casket

the sky bleeds in baskets

time, names, roots, numbers–meaningless if God slumbers

(He’s alive, keeping cells and molecules in place)

walruses blink

youth melts

paint runs

gravity’s race

sky water slips down like thirty-eight yesterdays

what even stays the same?

is there a sane anchor in madness?

where is order? who is peace?

how can death be displaced?

apart from origin, away from Creator, confusion and emptiness cause heart craters

empty eyes, hollow chests when we think we know best

have you ever made a boulder or spoke to form a glacier?

have you crafted a giraffe, do you know how to make the stars laugh?

were you there when heaven’s Miracle melted earth, rebirthed, second breath?

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord.
    “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.
For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so my ways are higher than your ways
    and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.

Isaiah 55:8-9