poetry – jalopy dreams

blue

(she)
(is)
(blue)
her heartbeat
blue
lucid eyes
blue
her random mind
wandering around bluewise
all her memories of olympus, blue
her name, in any language 
a shade of blue

“i’m a fighter, not a lover” she says with the vox of a dark blue animal
if you steal from her magnolia tree, she’ll burn your house down 
step on her toes and she’ll knock your teeth out 
her mermaids swim with sharks, her city bewildered with dogs 
she keeps angels on kite strings, they guard her temple of bluedom 
her kung-fu is the best, it’s insensate and blue and cripples the senses 

her decisions
are blue
her reasons
blue
her secrets
obscure  orphans of omniblue
she bends the blue 
blends into the blue
her holy business
is true blueness

“i’m an artist, not an intellectual” the crook of her smile insanely blue
she paints the world with her eyelashes, blink by blink
she hides little blue murders in black and white photographs
when she’s lost, her footprints turn into blurry brush strokes
this landscape is blue by her command

she goes down with the sun, keeps it under her pillow
little blue afterthoughts can’t escape the shadow puddle of her bed
and when the moon is the only thing in the sky
she is the long blue shadow of a blackbird

if she disappears, it is for good 
but not forever
and if the damage is done, then she is done
but not completely 
a fire will rise and remember, reclaim and recover
and she will return, when everything is yellow

posted for:

shay’s word garden word list

earthweal open link

dverse open link

snowing in omaha

maybe it's snowing it tokyo 
maybe it's snowing in omaha
and maybe there’s a shortcut tunnel between the two
	an easy commute
	thru the center of the earth
an inter-dimensional breezeway of the soul
a straightaway that stays true 
	and there you are 
side-stepping two blizzards

the long hallway is filled with portraits of dead uncles
and other gorgeous goons who stare at you
	admiring at your shoes
antique tables with antique candles and
chihuahua zinnias in chinese vases
the floor is covered in zebra skin rugs
zebras sold separately 
	there’s a gift shop
that sells postcards of all your favorite memories
(sunshine, razorblade skyline, sunburnt faces
eskimo pies melting on a playground) 
		nine for a dollar
there’s a waiting room 
recently repainted and waiting to dry
so you have to wait to wait in it
	that’s ok cause
there’s a dumbwaiter that delivers old world newspapers
	printed on new paper
made from reclaimed lumber
but the same old news as yesterday
	there’s a gallery where you are on display
where you stick your head into a cage and talk like a parrot
(squawk! like a parrot! squawk!) 
		but then something feels wrong
			something feels sick, oh
			no, you say
				where am i?
this is not a dusty old museum, it’s a mausoleum
it’s a warehouse full of funhouse mirrors
center of your soul
dead center of gravity
where momentum goes to die
		it’s a prison 
you run and run but go nowhere
and the more you run the more nowhere you go 
you try to leave but the doors are just painted on  
you try to sleep it off but wake up three hours before you slept
and have to start over 
you rage at the walls 
in fast forward and super slow-mo simultaneously
feeling like a poet who swore an oath of silence
wears a black beret and striped shirt
pulling a rope of pure hope
catatonic
catastrophic  
chthonic 
symbol of the dead
and your skin feels cerulean and your breath is feathery 
and your mind feels glassy and your heart starts to foam
and you don’t want to search for yourself inside yourself anymore
cause a hole inside a hole is dangerous and ugly and unholy
and it’s still snowing in tokyo
still snowing in omaha
and probably six foot deep and blowing sideways in rome  

and there’s a banjo in your pocket 
but you don’t know how to play it

note: i think i should get credit for using the word “mime” even though i didn’t use it… i mimed it =) just kidding.

posted for shay’s word garden word list

posted for the sunday muse #241

oxidia (final draft) (repost)

inspired by the character of the same name from the wallace stevens’ poem “the man with the blue guitar”

your love is like sniffing glue in a playground at midnight
your love is like running thru hell
		with naked feet
your love is solving quantum math with broken fingers
		and broken toes 
400 million trillion blackholes in this universe
all of them in denver 
		all your accidents end in denver 
you’ve got lilacs and postcards in your pocket
you’ve got asphalt in your hair 
your love is playing with snakes
you burn your bridges while you cross them 
you burn your candle like you hate candles 
		your love is like a puddle of gasoline
		and a dry well of tomorrow
you can swallow your heart and start over  
all your bullet holes are filled with black static 
you can play a blue guitar with blue fingernails
a heartbeat and a bruise, a heartbeat and a bruise  
                you can play a mean tambourine 
		you can play a lost goddess searching 
for the one-of-a-kind rainbow in a special raindrop in a random storm  
               you can play dumb 
your love is like the blue guitar you drag around by the neck
		heartbeat and a bruise, heartbeat and a bruise
400 million trillion broken hearts in denver
all of them yours 
you play dirty pool and you’ve got dice up your sleeve
your laughter is clattering and witchy itching all the right spots 
                but your soup is cold 
		no one knows where you came from
your star name is paper-mache angel
your earth name is downward spiral 
your eyes are haunted gloomy kamikazes
                you drink kamikazes
you throw kamikazes at everything that gives you pain
                your love is throwing side-eye at the world
your love is a one-eyed horse walking backwards in a blizzard  
your love is like rust eating a truck parked in a ditch
		adjacent to a junkyard
your love is like looking for a black cat in a dark room that
ran away years ago chasing blackbirds into blackholes in the
		darkness of denver
your love is something
		unspeakable
mythological 
		whisper and rumor
		non-sequitur   
	more than
		and less than
	and other than
		        true

notes: not sure if this is publishable anywhere today. where are all the wild child journals of my youth? my search for publications i really like and might print this kind of thing is way, way too short (actually, blank). any suggestions? why does art today have to be so fucking civilized? definitely going in the next chapbook though.