Pieces Of A Star
Body lovely body. I love the word lovely. It feels like fingertips dripping off my chin and sparkling eyes that stare too long, that reveal too much passion and candor and how in the end he will betray me. I am a lion. I am the sea. Waves rippling out to unknown shores. Sending sailors on their way. Birthing whales and bearing sonar. I freeze. I flow. I rage. I am mistaken, mistook, misunderstood, not taken care of, like a garbage dump. Don't dump. I roll away. I get underneath and through things like something small and invisible. Not seen. Not captured or placed. Just moving this lovely body in undulations of cosmic rhythm. Star patterns. Stars exploding around me and in me. I scream. Blood curdling, what the fuck happened scream. Screams that pierce through time's veil and come out of my mother's mouth I don't know why. Screaming gets you free, makes people look and see. Power power power. Kick it. Throw arms. Spine exhausted. Flexible. Moving slower. Still moving. I used to think I hated my family. Maybe I just hate myself. What's the mirror? What's not the mirror? I punch through glass shattering like tiny nebulas come down to Earth for our amusement and enjoyment and revolution. What if the aliens are the stars and nothing more. Our own Sun enslaving our bodies and rhythms, our waking and dying. I love people more then I let on. The mass. There's just too many now. Shake it. Shake them off. I care about every ember and trace their dancing bodies on the way down. I can't save them I can't save. I don't save things anymore. No papers, cards, receipts, money, wishes, lucky pennies, seashells. Not in my pockets. I want to be clean. Porcelain white but not that white. Floor to ceiling windows. The kind birds fly into. Glasses with no scratches, dry brush, scrub gloves, car wash, lick the plate smash it gold ceramic flying, pieces of a star, pieces of my heart and family. The kind that get under and through things and you don't know they're there until you bleed like eyes staring too long and fingertips dripping off my lovely chin and body.
Sunken Ley Lines
The waves suck at my feet like a kitten fighting, learning to play. The water tumbles brown with sand kicked up and swirling but I don't care I dive into it. I can't see. I swim. I feel. I always have to be part of nature. I don't want to be a postcard. I don't like postcards or any cards. I throw them away. I don't want paper. I know, I'm a writer. I can write inscriptions in the sand and trace the edges of poems on tree bark. I can breathe in all the living breathing moving things and say a word, a line. I'll remember. You'll remember. We'll write together in the tumble of surf and sand and brown and black and white. We are bodies and paper and the fine print no one bothers to read. Let's read it. Lets write it. Lets make the rules. Lets break them. Lets swim and jump and dive and maybe drown. Maybe float. Maybe