i loved you once,
in the coagulated moment of
all my past lives.
blood is a math that ages much;
the way people do, it deepens
in body and color
on a years long journey
up a god soft palate.
i’ve turned mecca gold, i’m painted in
calculus grace. it’s so nice to see you (and your fucking Windsor tan eyes)
again. i keep meeting you even though
we’ve n(ever) met; we
seem to be hex-trapped in a tetragon of entangled fates and in this millisecond i pledge a melodramatic bitch’s scarlet oath that i’ve met you at least a chiliad times and it’s absolutely dizzying like January snow in Syracuse.
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.
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.
I’m eating a wonderful tamale with crème, and it has the consistency of sweet, pulpy polenta. Two doughy, cheesy, pork filled papusa rest on a large white plate. I’m in heaven right now, with my book about a girl in the psych ward. Heaven.
Are we in the Soviet Union, or did Trump’s VP suggest that we build a frickin walk to keep immigrants out. What the hell?! You mean like an iron curtain, because that worked so well? Next you’re gonna suggest that we put machine guns on top of it, like a rampart. This election is looking more and more bleak. And have you seen the VP’s fight each other to the point of drowning out the moderator? I’m done right now.😵
Have you ever looked into the eyes of a foe–somebody who has brought you to tears with their ruthless calculating–and felt a rush of inexplicably undeniable Eros?
I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, so here it goes:
Thank you a trillion, bajillion, million! This goes out to all of my followers who make writing on this blog feel so rewarding!
Also a super special thanks to my baby sister, aka The Birthday Queen KaKa (step down Kim K, lol).
Also, I’d like to acknowledge one of my favorite bloggers, Victo, who I basically adore.
Thank you to all of you who have surprised me with your kindness, steadfastness, comments, likes, follows, clout, humor, everything!
Keep it up!
Yours Crazily (but adorably, maybe?)
A jar of sing silver
and gold pearl jam:
a candy coating for
frozen friezed cloud-
Here: the moonlit path to
Angelica-wish white nimbuses
slip crowns through
the eye of a needle.
kiss wings as huge
as sand is to an atom;
and downwind time
from the earth.
Imagine that the lips of
neverending would choose
an angel before a god.
You fit through the needle’s eye,
only half divine, but still
an alchemic ingot,
FOREVER in a knot.
Priestess poetess of Anubis and ghost-cannabis; impaled by the pali; you are a nacreous lotus, and a death pilgrim most grim. The unicorn’s cornucopia nicked Nike, but nixed you.
Clear sky, and I spot a sugary, Trap-junkie rainbow. You’re like a sextant for sexpot, and you transfigure sin and sight into a sensation of magnum G-force.
Seventy years without rain. The years are a Pegasus: fleet, gliding over meridian glimmerings lyrically. The middle of the earth is a dessert shaking with light suggestive of oasis. Nothing is there but the devil’s demi-angel in her god-regalia: ragged Selma-blue wings long as the wingspan of worlds.