Thursday, December 6, 2007

The Child Inside

she sits
listening to the sound of air
and snow
pressure in her chest
she starts to cough
something red
something black
comes up from inside
and it is dark and whole

it writhes in a pile on the floor
like a fish out of water
a child
a face like the devils
and a satine heart

what it once was
was wrapped
like a gift
that no one could have
wrapped in thorns

love is like bread
left out and forgotten
old and hard
for consumption

the child stares at her
milky white eyes like a mule’s
it’ froths and spits
a black shadow wrapped around one
a hand
holds on tight
squeezes and
the child
with its black hair
and small hands

she stands
she stretches
she takes a deep breath
and she puts one foot
into the waters
then walks away

her heart one solid
thump at a time
a warm loaf
from the oven
waiting to be

she leaves behind fresh prints in the snow.

What Would Be The Color Of The Last Day?

red if we spilled roses and spoke in tongues
blue if water rose and we knew of our beliefs
green if the trees spoke in riddles and we left our belongings behind
yellow if the sun hugged us and we laughed at the stars
orange if fire swallowed the sky and we coughed up our lies
purple if from under the bed they finally came and we cried into our pillows
white if diamonds fell from the sky and we lost our minds inside the caves
black if we simply closed our eyes and smiled at the end of days.

Saturday, December 1, 2007


not quite a look
unruly eyes, harmless
inside your head
your fingers, your
swaying while
ink drips out
of the pen and
a single sandal
slips off a dirty
she speaks
letters but not words.
light hides still in her heart.