the fireflieswarm nights openthe fireflies
themselves at my feet,
and beat an even rhythm
in the floorboards, the fireflies.
on these days we converse entirely in motion -- waking, walking,
wordless.
useless in the face of fear and possessed of a secret desperation, we await the arrival of the Good Life.
and so the seasonsmy grandfather died as the sun turned into sunset the taste of key lime pie in his mouth, suspenders still sticky with salt water leaving us with red crying eyes and too many people shouting help for the old old man in a heart-frozen puddle on the floor. my brother and i played games downstairs, games which turned into laughing into coughing into silence and we wrapped ourselves in too-thin blankets, fingers yello from lemon bars not sour enough. our swimsuits had become cold wool splashed with salt air and sirens that we drowned out, but couldn't.and so the seasons
i did not go to the funeral.
a symphony of citrusthe sky looks like christmas trees do without my glasses colors blurred and blending, bleeding into each others' open arms. summer is sipping its orange juice grass stained marmalade sunset curly straws of clouds and airplane trails a quilt of neon pool squares and drought-dry lawns spread out beneath it, a comfort blanket. an explosion burst bang of confetti-flavored laughs catapults from our open mouths, our open hearts feet pressing soft imprints into newly poured sidewalks and picnic park grass, we climb magnolia trees so far up the thick silk leaves no longer cover us anda symphony of citrus
a quiet little girlfirst grade was sand in my shoes dusty and grainy, coating my small callused hands with dirt that made them smooth and smelled of prairie. i was called little red riding hood in my fleece coat -a quiet little girl
soft and not warm enough for carolina playground winters - but i had no basket of goodies, only ingredients for hot everything soup though i did not like tomatoes. on thin tan paper i drew pictures of people holding hands the sky a thread above them, crayon shavings coating my clothes with blue and broken orange. my hair then was blonde like lemonade, paling to dresses the colors of we
what's he want...this relaxed step's a setback in the sense that everyone's leaving or left and unless I miss my guess disguise these fits & false starts stop staring embarrassed at hearts shared shaped according to complaint and the comfort of phones on a cellular level still only when silent since I can't take the talking test these waters and promptly drownwhat's he want...
done promising I'm over overreacting
and in the growing confusion someone asks "what do the words really mean?" what?! (I'
summer!
Excited
Why don't you join the poetry contest from [link] ?
It's free and every nitwit such as myself who enters gets a small gift
but someone like you might win one of their $10 000 or $100 000 prizes.
--
finish
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
charles bukowski
--
'a prize for your ears called love'
xo!
--
let's go play on a baggage carousel
--
"in america as the media hushes
millions of eyes float to the marble
of time where a stroke causes a collapse"
- splinter (wallpaper)
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