“In life I was noseblind to the beauty of my existence, the virus in my soul; I feared the tide wasn’t with me that time; the sky looked ominous At my tottering age. I was about to fall, but there were others there hanging like bats, waiting for me to clamber up the imaginary staircase where a white-haired white-suited man would check me into my suite: How sweet. And sour. I hoped lemonade will be free, and my wishes milky with chocolate lickings; such were my paradise dreams; There was a long, brightly- lit hall where white tried to prove it is a color; (and black knew better); It was all too gaudy; I yearned for something basic, in African shades, Serengeti splendor; I was a lion to myself, having taken myself across the threshold; I bore witness, all to the plain grasshoppers, human and insect, who feared the pulling of their limbs, who felt pinching fingers and needed to scream; I pour the wine for our latest arrivals; it will go down easy, the last easy thing they will ever do; they will walk the meadows, tending our gloried graves until the death of deaths……….”
On Monday I hear Mary talking to the wandering woman next door. Mary said, God speaks to her and he brought her endless hope. On Tuesday I see her at the park catching butterflies with her children. She said God put them in her belly and he gave her a reason to live. On Wednesday she speaks of deep promises and fulfillment. She said her savior has no setbacks and he put angels in her room. On Thursday she smells like white Madonna Lillies and daisies. She said his mighty arms will never break and he turned her wicked ways new. On Friday she looked like every day for no reason. She said this will take some getting used to and I miss her a lot sometimes. On Saturday she heard me talking to the wandering woman next door. I said I miss Mary a lot sometimes and we rested as tomorrow became today.
It’s best here in the early mornings on an overcast autumn day. Sitting on the plush orange sofa, in the semi-light. Warmed by Turkish tea, smoking rolled cigarettes. There’s only three of us here, and the barmaid clattering dishes in the back. An old French song tiptoes about the room. It’s best here when outside the weather’s grim. When there’s just a few yellow leaves left trembling on the trees. Sitting in
You must feel it too
time like a fire and all of us caught
at the heart of it
and how sometimes there is nothing
but this ever-present feeling of being consumed
say when you're awake on a Tuesday at 4 a.m.
and the fire is all there is
the fire and the understanding that nothing
will escape it
kiss me with your habañero fire biting lips inflamed by hunger blister my tongue with your Serrano sweat skin flushing cayenne as the torrid tip of your hot banana pepper poised, impassioned pulsing poblano piques and carribean jerks toward the acrid anticipation of burning alive a fevered inferno boiling over 'til drops of salty satisfaction roll from my chin
Are you sure you want to delete this item?