A couple fights outside the bar; long blond hair and doubled over in a haze of drink. Grenadine dreams of it all working out float to me, sitting on a bench cold as a bomb-pop. It aches.
A homeless man plays a washboard.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
we are naked here, you and i-- our skin peeled back like sardine cans, spurting aurora borealis from aortas.
we are saplings, barely rooted, channeling energy into endless blue. there is no mirror that can hold your brilliance, so I mumble hairy, twining words until you translate for me: seven, purple, buddha fish?
"heavenly, awe, beautiful."
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
Cigarette smoke wafts ash onto my jeans. I don't say anything to Her but I trace a trail of gray into the fabric. Her cigarettes smell like chocolate.
Her room drapes shadows into the hall, but Her lanterns have been on all night, flickering aroma onto glass, silhouetting a silver shape that protects Her. I damn Her guardian angel.
I want to put shining objects into my mouth, to let my tongue feel the smoothness sweetly sliding. She calls Her guardian Luna, but really, She is the moon.
She spoke conversational French until it became sickness, rashes spreading underneath the eyes so much like bruises. Her lanterns have been on all night.
She is constantly shivering, huddling under a dog-haired blanket on the porch, fizzling through cigarettes-- knees up to Her chest. Her fingers like cool streams trace across my cheek. Her guardian angel is an idol of chill plastic, but I would warm Her.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
there is a spider somewhere in my bedroom (i walked into a spiderweb between bookcase and altar) a baby one, maybe-- it is spring that's when babies are supposed to be born.
i was born in the dead of winter, january, semi-precious like garnet-- a dark blues baby, snow baby, the horizon between pure and night sky;
if i find the spider i might let it live. it's natural to find spiders in caves (dark blues baby, night sky baby, tapestries of ripped filthy clothing baby, cave baby).
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
free electronic tarot readings in incognito tabs at work.
says you're the king-- you're my past, anyway.
you're contented with your riches, aren't you? snuggling up to her on the bench in front of the whole campus framed in my window and the budding leaves.
my future card appears: the hanged man.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
A lantern lit in hues of blue glows faintly through the browning leaves. An arch of thorns looms over me, but I will search for the light. I must feel the pain of darkness before I reunite with the flame.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
i woke up and my skin was misplaced. snowflakes of it drape the bookshelves like spooky fabric i'd hang at Halloween. i would pick it all up and throw it in the laundry, but i am late for work. i whip on a different shirt, this one stained indigo with spilled ethics, and forgot my eyebrows as i slime out the door.
the only description for my spiraling stomach is ugh, a primal sound connected to clods of earth blown from cliffs to land in wet sand; next to it sings the ocean, and i am too close to drowning.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
Jazz is a fever caused by the friction of East and West; a nation dances in two parts against each other sending vibrations from Nola to Chicago, trumpets tracing the riverbank in shudders of gold.
Astronauts see it from space, a finger tracing northwards in spasms of jungles and jukeboxes, driving hips to chaos and throats to holiness.
Jazz breezes in like raw silk; sacred, yet mundane.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
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