three women
1.
Is Sunday the first day of the week? Is everyday?
Her aggressive calmness was beyond insistent. Pre-insistent, she might say, if she ever would, could. What can be killed? Nothing, if you adhere to stillness; lap folded beneath hands, smooth, thick thighs; a young old woman, an old young woman. Everyday was sunset. All day long. All music was 'OM' protracted, enacted; adhering to sound outside of sound was contradiction, but she knew this. Or never could.
Uncertain movies certainly played across the bullish, dulled-grey retina. Something about "Venus in Aquarius", or a handgun masquerading as a flower vase. Crater-faced angels were invisible to her. Not ignorable.
"Everything's an angel..." I once said, "even the ugly moon."
I came back inside, covered in the whispers of itchy trees.
"Fuck you" I thought.
But decided on silence, eyebrows burning like broken candles.
2.
Mother of my princess. Father of your
Prince. By no means my twin. A
Cancer that ignores me when
I speak. Adores me when I don't.
"How was your birth?
Those of all the others?
Mine?"
I ask,
Miming in pseudo-anonymity.
3.
How tall are you? Nevermind.
I'll stand on my tounge
To reach you...
*
(a poem recently submitted for publication)
1.
Is Sunday the first day of the week? Is everyday?
Her aggressive calmness was beyond insistent. Pre-insistent, she might say, if she ever would, could. What can be killed? Nothing, if you adhere to stillness; lap folded beneath hands, smooth, thick thighs; a young old woman, an old young woman. Everyday was sunset. All day long. All music was 'OM' protracted, enacted; adhering to sound outside of sound was contradiction, but she knew this. Or never could.
Uncertain movies certainly played across the bullish, dulled-grey retina. Something about "Venus in Aquarius", or a handgun masquerading as a flower vase. Crater-faced angels were invisible to her. Not ignorable.
"Everything's an angel..." I once said, "even the ugly moon."
I came back inside, covered in the whispers of itchy trees.
"Fuck you" I thought.
But decided on silence, eyebrows burning like broken candles.
2.
Mother of my princess. Father of your
Prince. By no means my twin. A
Cancer that ignores me when
I speak. Adores me when I don't.
"How was your birth?
Those of all the others?
Mine?"
I ask,
Miming in pseudo-anonymity.
3.
How tall are you? Nevermind.
I'll stand on my tounge
To reach you...
*
(a poem recently submitted for publication)