blue

blue copyright ziggy zagmyer
(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

all the stuff in grandfather’s pocket (1st draft)

eh, not sure what i think of this one, i like the idea, but it’s not congealing the way i want it to. i’ll have to come back and look at it again

grandfather is always talking in riddles, he keeps them in his pocket, the pocket with the hole in, all his riddles are escape artists, they fall to the ground and follow him wherever he goes, like baby ducks

“remember, wherever you go, there you are” 

grandfather is talking in circles again, talking about ferris wheels, talking zodiac symbols and goblin on unicycles, he says “it takes one hundred million revolutions to make one evolution, so make it a good one” 

grandfather keeps his third eye in his pocket, with his chapstick and a rusty key, an old baseball ticket stub and a broken golf tee, three red rosery beads and his favorite naked lady coin, grandmother is always sewing the hole in his pocket, grandfather keeps ripping it out, “a pocket with a hole in it is like a heart without a head”  
 
grandfather is talking crazy again, static in the attic, rubbish in the oven, magic in the madhouse, is it wisdom? is it life lesson or myth? mystery or mist? (or “vapour” as hughes writes it) nothing we can understand

“the faster the dog shits, the more tired he gets” 

“poppa!” grandmother yells, “not at the dinner table!” and the kids just giggle, then he sends us to bed with a riddle and a prayer “sleep deep, children, dream-birds will bring you skipping stones and magic bones, careful not to lose them when you wake”

his face is a lexicon of puzzles, eyes glitter like razors, eyebrows thick as encyclopedias, his smile a thousand years of love, and all the lines, a map of some otherworld long gone and yet to be born, his riddles unlock forgotten doors

“look at me, i walk just fine, even though my sock is falling down”

“What the hell pappa? what do you mean?”

“if there’s a hole in your soul, don’t fill it with yourself, a hole can’t fill a hole, that’s how we collapse” grandfather is always making sense, and he gets younger by the year, i see it in his eyes, he won’t be an old man poet crying old man poems, angels only sing in riddles 

“surprise surprise, sunrise in the graveyard” as he walks across the rubicon, walks upon the water, he is adopting otters and river dippers, puts them in his pocket, the one with the hole in it, they will swim together forever and fly away as riddles  

posted for the word list at shay’s word garden