weak bones and sleep-starved eyeshe made wishes on gunshotsand sent out empty prayers to an empty skyand sometimes, while he slept[a vicious, taunting, halfway-sort-of-not-really-asleep-at-all sleep]his fists would clutch at air,and his swollen strawberry lips would twist andturnand his too-young, too-pale face wouldgrimace and scrunchand when he cried out,the babies in the next room would start crying too.eventually the shadows under his eyes gotso bigthat they swallowed him upand his arms got scarred and broken from all the timeshe'd checked to see if his heart was still beatingand he stopped having nightmares because hestopped chasing sleep;he spent his nights awake,staring up at the empty sky,tuning out the gunshots and keeping his prayers to himself.
Some Nights Are Better ForgottenLet me slam into the linoleum allow the tiled wall to leave lines behindthat will blossom into bruises on my skin.I want to feel your five-fingered strikescaress my cheekbones like the sick love storyof disaster and self-destruction I've createdby downing one too many drinks.It's a relief to be marredwith a mark made by a handother than my own.I don't think I ever admitted to youhow your handprint hovered on my skinin sickening harlequin and hunter greens I imagined it appropriate to mask it with my make-upand use foundation to build my smiles in the morning.
On the EdgeSee now that I am not a Ghostamong men.Know I am a green giant of solid contemptamong the rocks and the trees and the birdsof the sky.Solid, yet decorative and flimsy with moss,lichen and dew: blinded Sunday starlight.See, too, the seano the oceanblanketing theSilver line of the chilly morning.Morning.Mourning.Mourning the still silent bubbles of stoppagein timebright pearls of clear, crystal loppingup a frozen, sodden sweater,green in the distant blue and further unfurling bluesky.To sleep long,look now that I am not a Ghost;among men.
ocean childThe ocean has whipped the bones within her into a frenzy; they clatter loudly, violently, as the wind shakes the silt from hair burnt the colour of autumn.She breathes deeply. Shakily. She imagines, for a moment, that her bones sound like wind chimes, tinkling softly under the starlight; but the moment passes. Even wind chimes sound ugly when the wind gets too strong - and it has.It strips him from her skin in too-thick layers. She watches him drift away within the embrace of his newest lover, cloud-tipped fingers holding him in all the places she never could.When she thinks about it she feels nauseous. She wonders the things that everyone wonders, in moments like this one. She feels the things that everyone feels. She feels the ache under her ribs, the shiver in her lungs; she re-evaluates every word, every touch, every lingering brush of the fingertips; she tears herself in half trying to cling on to the memories she wants to forget. Her eyelids tingle, and for just a second she b
In the Name of FlippancyThis is how it starts.Springand the butterflies don't know what to dowith all that nectar.Springtimeand the mountains are in bloomlike they shouldn't be:Edelweiss, Edelweisssnowy apparitions in the velvet-vomittingsky.Springand the children are dancing,chanting, howling to the blue moonand the parochial stars;"wrinkle, wrinkle [iron out the scars.]"This is when it starts [to end.]In sleep,the people dream that atmosphereis actually ocean and constellations areschools of fish -- shimmering, sashaying,shooting.In wonder,the world falls in to slumbermurky as a grotto: dismal dreamsand parting thunder.In Tahoe,there is winter, and there is July,and somewhere in betweenthe flowers bloom, seed,and die;transitions are a risky business- earth into sky, tautology into taciturn,water into wine.This is when it ends.Winter and wind-turbines;women and weeping;whispers and watsonia.Wrinkles in a water-scope.Oh, what a lovely