1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
MuselingRed wine ramblescurdle the air, but stillyou dream; half-moonbody curled in thelamp light. I am leaving,I am leaving, choking onsome holy word—the floorboards creak,a sonata for mychangeling shadowwhilst you, hair tangled uponthe pillow, are spun gold.
Alla RabiosaScorpio's tail slips low—a mari usque ad mare:from sea to seaover me, a devil in the sky above;and the Huntresspeels dawn like an orange.(Fling meamongst the stars:the Mad Queen's cosmic mirage.)
ApsaraFind me sunken into thelotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,waist-deep and pinkin sunset, and we will cry:for three-faced elephants,for rain,for the dancers threading gracebetween their fingertips—until I dress in the heaviness,a sarong of heat.
SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
ElsewhereNights like these I stay awake watching glass shardsshine in heaven-light, and my mother says that I should go, Elsewhere.Rain doesn't stop for the little losts—underwater at one o'clock;still the streetlights blaze like midnight suns, and whale song driftspast parked cars.Nights like these I am waterlogged, wandering, and I don't findAtlantis just a sofa downtown where the whale lovesongs are raindrop-borne,slipping through the window and dripping onto hands. I remind myself I amonly alone, though missing—the weight of my cat on my feet and mysister's soft sleeping.
Little FuryThe storm throws you to my door, drenched and bloodied, god-light dimmed. The crest of the hill is underwater. You have no boots. Morning dawns cold, clear, a watery gold. You are gone.
NautilusIthe rest of my life should be earlymornings; when God is still sleeping.I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,pearlescent, like the primordial ammonites.III follow you every night-the hunter shooting at the celestial bull,shimmering crusts of bread through the dimmest lands of passage.Suggesting a way home.Home, or across the ocean,or everywhere under the moon if,early mornings, when God still sleeps,I wake up warm in the corner of the sofa,and you are not an idea anymore.IIIthe rest of my life should be earlymornings; when God is still sleeping.I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,pearlescent, like the primordial ammonites,shedding my scales in the wash basin;to, gleaming, climb back into bed,turn off the stars.I shouldn't dream anymore.Good morning.
Witches MarketMidnight fell like an old black bird;I meant to wait for you.There were tables rich withamethyst and pearls,and fragrance by the fistful,mint and petrichor.I meant to wait for you.You were gliding through the hazewith your knotted bag half full-shadows flicked their tonguesabove your knees;you meant to look for me.Moments ran like mice;a silver pot, a cup of tea.She stank of vinegar and thyme-the hand was hers, the heart was mine.Her iron eyes reflected flame;she took my lungs, she took my name,though you had meant to look for me,and I had to meant to wait for youamid the black salt and the brew.Ash for the handle,Birch for the brush,Willow for the cord that binds the twigs.
summer homei've rearranged the rooms of my chestto make room for you.i won't say it didn't hurtto make myself your Adam;removing ribafter ribuntil you found a comfortable perch.there, beneath my unguarded breast,you construct your nest ofevery lovely thing you've come to loveabout me(while the rest of me flaps wildlylike moth wings against the cold wallsof my exposed heart).i should've known you'd leavewhen winter froze me.don't apologize [for the ache].you kept the beautiful bits of mewarm(while they died).
IcarusFledgling of thefour-winds; feather-lightagainst ajaundiced sky(dawn is quietwhen the noose istight).
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
seven hours of who you might have beeni.the breath you tookthe moment you fellout oflovelies in the dirt somewherebetween the gardenand the dip of empty earthwhere rain pools.all the lost things of your lifekeep gathering in cottony patches overheadthat only the flowersyou have touchedcan sense.ii.years vine out.between thumb and forefinger,the clumsiness ofmore than just oneseed.iii.on Judgment Dayyour tomato plantswill come out of the earthcarrying your braverylike beads of water,they will gesturewith their leavestelling howmagnificent and half-drunkyou left the houseto stand in the historic thunderstormthat killedthe neighborhood dogs,the ants ofthe city.iv.the trees lining the waterand the green in the air,the wordjuneand the distancebetween syllables of river-waterreplace the vanishing pointin all yourbest memorieswith the divine.v.how many wordsyou could formout of your name,thatand how oftenyour hour in the suncamewas all that matteredchildwhat happened
things i have come to know about the sky1.you are endless, a backlit canopyor stage of infinites; some sayyou speak to them in low murmurs,that you rain judgement down upon us,i fear you not, you've caught my eye a few timesbut i only looked up to see whatthe hype was all about2.when i was born, doctors said i was blue—cerulean as the sky,entering the world with clenched fistsand held breath—battle though this life may be, always itwill be by my rules3.scientists say the sky is like an onion;layers of celestial sphere you can slice offwith a thumbnail, 217.5 miles of teary eyes& thick skinwe know not of what it is that compelsgravity to roll this sorrow down our faces4.in some cultures they say the sky is athronedom, an altar for the gods; weather,an instrument of rageful indifference,a beautiful devotion worthy of arthritisand a place in our school books5.you torture us as the romans did,we the bread for your melancholy circuses;apathy never looked so poeticas you do when you pain
combatantI.it strikes methat this womancould be a palace.I marvel atthe opulent dome ofher brow, her archexpression—skin like a courtyard ofivory tiles,a thousand intersectinggolden lines about herhead and neck.she beams from atop hersunlit tower,beatific and beautiful,spreads her arms likeopen doors,invites you to be one ofthe manywho have wandered herlavish halls.II.I’ve often thoughtof myselfas a castle:all rough-hewn stoneand turrets,a temper like moltentar.my head is crownedwithembattled parapets,weapons readiedat the crenels.I look out from myguerites, my brattices,eyes like arrow-slitsand a murder-holefor a mouth.III.I wouldn’t blame youfor choosing herover me—for regarding my fortressas too daunting,for deciding easy acceptancebetter befit youthan proving your worth—I could forgive youfor being a coward.but you swam the moat,killed the guards,scaled the battlements,demolished my fortifications—and
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
Of solace sleeping in today was the essence,waking up the process of becoming singular . I want to end itbut I can't stop associating you with these images: a season being flung onto the ocean, making a mess of color . there's an insect caught in my poetry,trying to mend its broken wing
you need to have a plan...so here's toconventional wisdom.1. relocateto some forgotten shore.2. fall desperately in love with i. the ocean ii. the sky iii. the honey sunrise and iv. the steelgray winter dawn.3. sinksoul-deep into the water andbreathe.4a. search out the requisite words i. from behind white and blue curtains ii. and underneath clam shells iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and4b. pluck them from the ceaselessscrawls of sunlightagainst the slopes of waves.5. make time for i. poetry ii. and other selfish pursuits.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
FallFor a while it will seemas if I was never coming back,like summer or a childhood dream.Your toes twist in the September sandand the chill reminds youthat some thoughtless time,some apple-scented evethe old dog will growl low,the night shadows stir;moths will dart desperatethrough an open door--and you will watch solitude disappearlike broken, restless love.
I have your number, SeabirdHis bathroom is small and bleak. The mirrorshows your reflection in seven colors whichhaven't been named on the red-blue-yellowspectrum. Your eyes are shaking like eggsand he hasn't said your name in a year. Youthink of everything he calls you: Jay, Jaybird,Rose if he's playful. He told you particles ofevery man he's slept with are in the carpetwhen he pulled your head back to look intoyour pupils. Your eyes are black. They run,raw and rotten from fluorescence overhead.He told you the shrooms weren't the same.If you don't like LSD, you might feel bettertrying something more natural. It growslike marijuana: from the ground. But so doesevery poison you can think of. You're natural,bare with shades you can't begin to fathom.Something like sulfur is in your nostrils. Youtouch the furry rug and think of Vishnu. Hehas so many arms to carry you. Jesus only hastwo. The church was broad and heavy. It sleepsin Chicago, beside a park that smells like piss.He opens the door,
Vaguely heart-shaped. In another universe, who I amgets dumped by a womanwho in another lifewas Cleopatra.Today I divine this by finding a small blackened potatobetween my oven and counter,vaguely heart-shaped, sproutingpale arteriesof no use to me,I think on an inexplicably dramaticwhim.
How to Pocket a Man's HumanityFirst, convince him to adopta rescue cat, fat, days awayfrom slaughter. Find one mis-sing half his tail. The pairwill purr in tune; this stepis important. Next, rush him,him and his rescue, to theirhome, and then keep them dryand healthy. Move deliberate-ly, with articulation. Shapethe sound. Watch cat and mansup together, sleep together.Spring happens upon them, asit does, and the man and hisrescue walk along the bridge-less route to the forest andgrove without wind. Convincehim to let rescue race aloft,to the distant hill-top. Andhe will, and he does, and heis gone. The man screams out-ward into the meadow, screamafter scream weaving throughstalks of wheat, but nothing.No clicks or mews. A nothingagainst the rust of night onthe horizon. Help the man to-ward his doorstep. Help keephim apprised of the treelineand its shadows. Finally, he,rescue, appears, and the mangrabs your collar and shoutsand walks and runs and stops.Rescue has brought home lifefle
Cicadas in the HibiscusThe WastelandPlanet Earth is dead.The Biospheres are pristine,bright recollections.He breaks ships for cashbut has never flown abovethe smog and rusting.They revolve like moonswith a hundred white faces.Billions look up.The Garden of Eden"Let's feed the Earthlings,"cries a human. She wondersat speciation.Extinct flowers bloom.The day cycle ends and shewatches the dome split.The constellationswere renamed by the Founders.She finds Orion.The Dark StarHe collects spare parts,amasses a ship in months,then learns to pilot."There's no need for alicense to kill, kill, kill, kill,the unfortunate."She sees him coming,but says nothing. The glasserupts to soundless.OblivionThey watch from the groundand color televisions.Some cheer. Some sicken."And measures have beentaken to ensure no moreSpheres will be damaged."The borders tighten.Someone starves in Coal City.Planet Earth is dead.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
Van GoghSlip intothe first vestige ofmorning, theblush of a summer'sday already aglowalong you—your silhouetteglistens, an aureoleof molten goldas sunflowers puddleat your feet.
NaPoWrMo 28-Featured:Here by `dreamsinstaticHere by =AzizrianDaoXrakHere by *CherishKayHere by ~smilewithloveHere by =DailyLitDeviations (And as Pick of the Day!)Thank you so much!