Nursing pictures like memories
and memories like children,
In pictures far better
than they could ever be.
Anyone who asked, she would tell them
how proud she was, and
how much more wonderful and angelic they became
with each successive retelling.

Until she gathered her flock
back into the scrapbook.

La Luna Loca

Tonight I will be insane,
yes tonight, and tomorrow night as well
I will fall from that razor
definition of "sanity"
my wax brain will become molten
and slosh around a bit
the the wax forming rivers running
down my pillow and off of my bed
into the garden to stargaze at asters
and wisteria, to then take flight
taking me to places I will never be-
all of my friends successful, and saying hi
and telling me how awesome everything is,
dreaming that I contributed something
to everyones lives, spiders descending
from popcorn ceilings, finding the meaning of life
from their webs and the struggling prey
and realizing how simple it all was.

but now the sun is coming,
my dispersed conscious flees
only to condense back into my skull
with the dew, each and every morning
back to sanity.

I often wonder about the difference between the sane and insane, a fine line that is constantly moved back and forth by psychologists. Homosexuals used to be considered insane and were given hormone treatments and were given electroshock therapy, now they are considered to be perfectly healthy. There are probably many states of mind that have been recently relabeled as sane or insane based on current knowledge or schools of thought. I know I have had temporary ideas of insanity in dreams and sometimes when I am excessively tired. I get irrevocably convinced that the world is a certain way, or that there is some sort of government scheme, or that other people are crazy. Sometimes when I am fading in and out of sleep, I think I am inside the world of whatever book I am reading at the time. It can be both euphoric and terrifying.

Leviathan

Today I saw myself
within a rippling pool
my image a cyanotype version
of something inside,
something just below the opaque
reflection, so I get on my knees
offering my hand, I reach in deeper
into the cool depths of the liquid
and recoil it in shock,
my hand and brow moist with revelation,
there are some things
I would rather not remember.

I have noticed that I started a two of the previous poems with a description of hair. I love hair, maybe it is because I have a mom who is a hairdresser, but to me, there is nothing like feeling soft hair on freshly-shaved skin. It has a huge emotional attachment for me, I am afraid that I will someday fall in love with a girl simply because of her unusually soft hair.

Shotsie

Long flaxen hair
lifted from the boxes of christmas
past, each bundle put on the tree
the golden strands connecting
me to my past self,
like those telephones of cups
and string, practicing telepathy.

And I found out something of great
importance from my snot-nosed self:
you see Nana had a cyclops dog
with one creepy eye that would stare at you
like one of the fates,
gasping and growling with prescience
and asthma, and I was terrified
of this omen-bringer.

but one day I put my ear close to hear
what the ancient oracle had to say,
she whispered to me in rough iron words:
"Speckled adder and ebony crow
you will walk a path where none else go,
through skeletons wet with mourning dew,
you will become what you never wanted to."

Tender Scars

I have a crack in my windshield,
you can only see it from a certain direction,
but once the angle of incidence is found
you can see the golden scar
running the width of the car.

And just yesterday, the tree out back,
as old as me, bled profusely, fresh amber
sap spilling from a fracture of the heart-
wood of the eucalyptus. I really dont feel
like talking about this anymore,
you are prying too far.
get out,
now.


in other news, I have found the resonant frequency of my laptop screen (not mathematically, that is no fun)

Crossing Chasms

Raven hair and blinded eye,
Maggie, with locks let low
floating on prodigal zephyrs,
breezes communicating their fickleness
with invisible fingers.
Their attributes far more poignant
than the fading, rusty sun,
and the crimson rays
that descend on your pale cheeks.

Biting at the cold, at worlds unknown,
We grasp for connection.
"What does the sunset look like?"
I place her thin hand on my heart, "This
beat, this warmth, this is the rhythm
of the cosmos."

Alot of love poems, it is a bit sickening, but also kinda fun. I used to try to do love poems and they were terrible (these might be too, but they seem ok to me, right now). I do not know what has gotten into me, I do not want a relationship right now, but maybe something inside me is longing for that kind of connection. I am my own puzzle.