Hundreth Year Angel

 

Aureole over apparition winged and solennial: celestial slimikin starrified I have stibograms (facsimiles of your footfalls) etched in steam on glass. A golden yelve places embers on the deva thysiastery;

I worship Iliad’s pagan Helen in phoebus form: desiderium is mine in dolor violets; I miss you. Mythic Lily of the Incas, I divine you in shamanic tones; frothy, velvet delphinium delineates your mystic, Delphi purples; Greecian Hyakinthos lays palest bell-shaped hyacinths on the flaming scathefire of lust.

I burn sacrificial incense of protea and peony; Queen Anne’s lace and sea lavender are for your soteria; mikado apples burn to chocolately wenge, turn falu in fulvous flames. I wish for you in ciphertext; like the Rosetta Stone, I yen in glyphs. Like the scriptures I go between smoke and Hebrew, leaving Greek in the ashtray.

The Muslim Ban: A Prime Example of Stupidity

People don’t commit evil deeds because of their religion; they commit evil deeds because of various underlying issues like untreated sociopathy, psycopathy, and trauma; impaired interpersonal relations, untreated psychosis, anger issues, bigotry, and brainwashing.

Anybody can be a so called Christian and:

  1. have a personality disorder
  2. struggle with substance abuse
  3. be inducted into a group with extreme ideology and hate propaganda
  4. be vulnerable

The result would be a messiah type terrorist blowing up cities of ‘sinners’ in the name of the holy Father. 

(i.e. f-ing everyone dies because: 

A. cleavage and pants on women times 

B.men with long hair to the power of 

C.gayness🌈🐻💜 equals 

D. bad and die) 

About this homeland security thing. Yeah, there’s this thing called criminal profiling, Mr. Trump. You should leave that work to the feds. Oh yeah, you are a fed. Oops. 😐

There are so many wonderful Muslim people, like the sweet woman from Morroco who gives me a ride home after work. She believes in Allah, wears a hijab, and is the farthest thing from a terrorist I’ve ever seen. If she’s a terrorist, then so are the characters on Sesame Street, and so is fucking Mickey Mouse.

Like, her voice is like the sweetest thing and she has an adorable kid that she forced to say hi to me. I’m a stranger. I’ve had other people’s kids pimp slap me, so…

I say all this to say, we’ve got to get a grip on reality. Trump is an etreme xenophobe that needs ‘extreme vetting’ because he’s an extreme idiot. He’s afraid of anybody different from him. He can’t see all the good Muslim people bring to our country; or that every Muslim isn’t from the Middle East. 

Muslim’s are a rainbow: their Egyptian, African American, Pakistani; they’re anybody who believes.

You can’t keep love out. People will continue to love their gods, their families, their spouses, their holy scriptures, their mosques, and their America, and or countries of origin. All you can do is cause people unnecessary pain and suffering–temporarily. 

His fate is to be impeached. Soon this will be a nasty memory. Our next task will be to check Pence’s extreme right wing a**. 

*sigh*

Stay woke y’all. Pray for all the Muslim people. Pray for this world.

Elusive

Corn blue paper coin moon

                          hangs

                                out of reach of

the world.

Dreams

Seaside fantasies of crushed velvet waves, cubed granular salt, and inky blue depths of silk, seude, and panda fur flood my mind. Tepid palm leaves trap equatorial steam and cause warm rain to peel the yellow wallpaper in my bedroom mind.

I pick up the phone, covered in pink, fluffy, faux fur. I call my bestfriend, Niobe, and we talk for hours about the beach house we’re going to build when we run away together. 

We’ve got everything planned. I can see it:

Seashells and barnacles tup with pure gold doorknocker earrings in our jewelry boxes; we stay up late listening to the ocean moan to god while we watch lascivious red light specials and dream about skinny dipping. 

In the afternoon on the next day, our golden retriever jaunts giddily as we chase it with a stick, laughing like lunatics, playing reverse fetch. Down in the baked, luminous sand we nuzzle our dog, Kizzie, and eat whatever we want–and I mean whatever we want. 

I hold Niobe’s hand, and wipe mustard from the corners of her crumby mouth, licking my fingertip sensually afterwards. I’ve seen a lesbian couple do this in an obscure movie.

On misty morning walks, we’re mistaken for lifetime partners and lovers as we sweep the gilded sandman from each other’s canthi. 

Together, we own exactly one bike that we ride every Thursday to the local grocers. The bike is canary yellow with a glossy finish, a large, brown wicker basket, and a shiny bell. Its a Vintage make with huge wheels and ribbons on the handlebars. 

(I name our bike Rita, after the Italian ice place where I met Niobe as a gap toothed, big headed kid. She had dimples and a satiny kiddie perm that produced sumptuous pigtails to past her shoulders. She bought me ice cream and we’ve been inseparable since.)

Niobe rides on the handlebars, her full bottom making a soft, inverted heart in her distressed blue jeans. I steer badly, inciting her mock ire. 

On a straight stretch of road, I stop steering , but keep peddling. I cinch my arms around her doughy waist, my nose pressed to her sweaty back, my fingers spread and preying for higher, softer ground; I search for her sweet fruit until I break her boughs; her leaves and scented, sap studded branches raining down on me as we collapse into the grass; sunshine, bike, and all. 

That’s when I realize that we are not friends. 

Because, ‘scuse me as I get blunt: sexual peaches ain’t for no apple-pickin’ friends; just like cobbler ain’t for bad kids, nor easter egg hunts after church in the hot sun. No. You been the devil’s help in Sunday service all morn. Your mama done sweated her lortdang press out and aint waiting in nobody’s hot ass sun for your bad ass to find a sulfur smellin’ egg in a bush.

So no, I don’t get to squeeze on Niobe’s pleasurable bubblegum bubble curves, Niobe tells me. She says no as she tenderly leads my rough, slim hands to all of the places I am absolutely under no circumstances to touch. She says she is a Missourian who believes in showing and not telling. 

It is here, that we have our FRIED GREEN TOMATOES rubicon moment: my fingers graze her chocolate dipped milk mounds, part her pillowy legs, bathe in sacred coves of pink salt stone in the quiet grass. The road is empty and we foment all alone like Mentos in a glass of cherry Coke.

We’ve got it all planned out, or at least I do.

Time Of Magic

You part your tears

with a seaglass hairbrush; the chocolatey, mink brush bristles 

paint pallid watermarks around your

wet-lashed eyes, like magic pipe frosting on papyrus. 

I watch the snow,

that only I can see,

fall morbidezza when you walk my way; Psychedelic dream winds lift rings of cigar smoke

from your hair in a dais like aureole;

and I realize that it’s happening again: to me, of course. 

Not to you

The silent, dreamsicle snow that 

only I 

percieve as both real 

and sentient 

happens to me; 

or rather, to sound less passive, I make it happen, like heroic magic.

It is my magic. It is my zoo, and I hope you’ll buy a yellow matinée ticket 

and come see me be ringmaster of the symphonic snowdrifts of my heart.

Frank Ocean Dreams

SoCal leather palms bleed shoe polish greens into the slush of warm peach breezes. Salt water sparkles on the naked, gilded sweet potato shoulders of a pole dancer; she’s taking a midday swim in the deep blue velvet before dinner. Then she’ll be off to work.

Idling near the sun-blanched boardwalk is a white Ferrari. It’s upholstered in sex, smashed funfetti birthday cake, and lemony quaaludes. The unidentified driver sleeps, baking in sun.

The car speakers are crusted in cake frosting courtesy of last nights A-Anon concessions; Zinfandel and Grey Goose leak from a scuffed sports bottle onto the lambskin in the backseat.

The man in siesta tries not to notice Friday Khalo weeping in the arms of an orangutan in the car seat next to him. 

Maybe, his Ferari is a Lamborghini with pink tinted windows, fetid orchids and pineapples carpeting the interior, and a pair of disembodied Marilyn Monroe breasts riding shotgun.

Closing my eyes is the answer.

Sunken Mermaid

The flooding

takes the roof off my mind;
I step into high water: 
Your brown Mississippi eyes 

peel the dingy pink

wallpaper from my 

parched, adobe soles
Your skilled phalanges are filaments of warm, 

muddy water and cane sugar; you are chocolate waves of
Summer magnolia clinging to windows opening into other windows; your eyes

lap at the tiny antebellum dollhouses between my painted plantation toes,

and sink me like a desert well.
You turned the key in my ignition only

to drive me into the lake. I remain a secret life, dead to you,

but teeming like a maritime rumor.

and I might never die.

Stranger Things on Hulu

Check out this video on Hulu!

http://hulu.com/w/mf05

This was a beautifully evocative film, full of dust jackets and foxed edges; glass spiders and ewes; sprawling woodland elegance; and tattered English charm. 

It’s a romantic study of the serendipitous meeting of a homeless man and a mourning woman.

It’s a sensitive, earthy film with understated optimism in the midst of grit and pain. I highly recommend it.

The Eternity of Five Minutes

There is something so soothing and magical in the white, concentric ripples out on the lake. Lately, I’ve been so ensconced in the pheramone induced dopamine high of fresh lust, that I’ve neglected good ole mindfulness. 

I feel so calm outside of the periphery of workplace drama, telenovela like romance, and melancholy. I feel calm while here at the lake; drakes and geese dapple the snowy light on the water with pallid umbra, and remind me of the romance of nature. 

It’s like being on one of those antebellum, plantation style, wrap-round porches in The Notebook; and for five minutes, I’m not longing for Noah.

Love Letter

Venetian wineglass reds and baked, love letter greige appear in photographic Vermeer splendor. Within gilt framework, a British rose is lined with mink lanugo and peanut butter and jelly umbras. Clothing litters the floor.

Pillow soft suedes of buff and bisque wrap round buttery dulce de leche integument; cakey stomach grades into chiffon breasts; cream puff mammeries taper into whipped mousse nipples. Dormouse hued areolas, cut from upcycled raw silk ballet slippers, are soft to the glistening tongue; saliva saké on satin. 

Amaretto almond liqueur sluices over velvet rope thighs; between the sex lines is a swollen cherry cordial; it’s suspended in cloudy honeycomb amber, wrapped within a lace g-string; a pearl of antique black truffle rests in a rustic mons clamshell of espresso semi sweet chocolate. 

The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.