Sunday SkeletonsEvery Sunday I paint my nails a garish neon pink,slip on my best polka-dot funeral flats,and meet the skeleton in my closet for teaat the coffee shop down the street.He always looks dashing in his bleach-skulland too-bright bow tie get upand we talk about our shared loathingof hip hop while the other patrons--old poetry souls, he calls them between sips--stare at us over badly-placed menus.Inevitably, conversation dries uplike the marrow in his bonesand I nibble bird-like at a croissantbefore adjusting the black veil on my headand asking the same question I have askedevery Sunday at three thirty threefor almost six years."Why don't you ever leave?"He sighs then, a rattle of ribs,and knocks his knees togetherand steeples the claws of his handsand he whispers"Why don't you ever let me go?"
Think of Me When You're Out ThereI am a dominant gene; live as I diein all the pictures that I've seenAt night. I hear it creeping--I've been looking at peoplehanging on this postand I can see you turn away.Don't tell me that this is your last chance to change;my guilt and my shame always sell me short, always feel the same.Oh yes, I'm the great pretender;you came callingand it's another night in hell.
Drowning ShipsLittle submarine weavesbetween thick seaweed clawsthinking about death.Watching anglerfish flashthe beacons on their heads,he wonders if they are luring in mealsor calling for a mate to keep them warm in the dark.Telescopefish fight offbristlemouths and barbeled dragonfishand he wonders how many enemiesthey can swallowbefore their stomachs explode.In the midst of the actionbetween the bow of one fallen sailboatand the port of a cruise liner,unicorn crestfish make flitting escapescloaked in shrouds of heavy inkand he wishes he could see the starsto trade with them their fates.Little submarine pondersthe forgotten scrap metal as the sea breathes and sighsand envies how easy it must befor ships that only ever floatto drown.
Come Stop Your Crying, It Will Be AlrightShe says she's no good with words, but I'm worse--I threw our rings into a box.Livin' my life in a slow hell;one day, one night, one moment.You know, it tears me up insideif all of my life, I try and I try.What's her car doing outside his house?One devotion to an empty moment.Sunday morning when the paper comes,circling her, circling her, circling her head;listen to her heart.The walls between her and I?They've come to witness the beginning.
Dark WatersI am an angler fish at the bottomof a dark ocean hoping to lurethe right words in with thebeacon on my head flared.
Dreamcatcher StringsBlack widow weaves threads between demons snagged onbraided dreamcatcher strings, knitting a paper-thin netto capture her dinner and set nightmares free.
Two Second ShutterSun-rimmed glasses magnified hidden eyes,the leopard's sleek fur a mosaic of leaves.Tempting irises with an earthly fury shift as forest shadows dance and writhe,breathing so close, you can't believethe trees haven't fallen silent yet. Sunlight spirals twinkle down to fireflies,tiny flares lighting on quivering whiskers.The stage is set for unrequited desire;you pack up your camera as she stirs, languid.Some things aren't meant to be capturedand out here, your camera is a cage.
Faery CirclesI watch the modern world pass me by, stretching bark-hardened arms--broken at the elbows, ligaments torn, fingers splayed in all directions--in a balmy breeze. Centuries ago, I stumbled into a faery circle; I wonder how many lost souls, like me, are still screaming.
Monarch MorningsMistress Monarch spreadsRorschach-splattered wingsover white-capped mountains,a new dawn seen throughthin antennae masksand yellow-trimmed lace.