Gold in Fifty

Celeste’s Teal and Orange Runner’s.

Cross country, Track & Field, nitty gritty city streets… treadmills, Celeste remembers respiring tears; how it felt to win a race. Recollecting what it cost to keep sharp, tight, breath in pace. Mostly, Celeste remembers redemption in a short stop; muscles pulsing into pause, embracing the deep of reflection, and sleep.

Some Love to Learn the Hard Way.

Ariadna can be such a dog.

The golden retriever lays in the shade, licking wounds.

Ariadna hopes the world will dull it’s sharp edges.

The doctor was kind, but pain remains.

Sometimes the world needs to know when enough is enough, but the world never listens to wishes of bitches.

Valerie’s Dancing.

Today Valerie’s tired of being strong. Today Valerie wants to melt, vulnerable and weak into the right person, for all the right reasons. Today Valerie wants to be that person. There she goes.

Frankenstein’s Frankincense.

Mary Anne in pen-striped trouser’s—
For decades now;
Painting
Sammy’s eyes
Smoky, black, as he
Shares her
Phantom pain
Of what it is to be
The other.

Build:
A small man,
Greasy,
Combed over,
Afternoon shadows
Supine spine;
Hear her clogging up the hall—
Voice like a choir boy,
Rising, to the pleasant pitch of
Cracked,
Pressed-on
French-tips scraping blackboards, she-bark,
Newport’s, and warped funhouse mirrors.

Finding self in oxymoronic truth’s; aromatic tears
All the while playing
Pretend.

see the children.

Sandra loves
The way her children play
Together—see them
Dance; distinguished motions
Matched, spin, spill and tumble
Off the page—into the net:
Catch them
Unraveling it’s threads
Black
Chaotic souls of creation
Dance amidst the glaring
White of lights
Little Emily; lemur ringed
Knee high’s, patent
Leather Mary Jane’s
Crossed upon the rock, as she’s
Chewing pastel pink and baby blue
Taffeta ribbons, laughing
Little Bleu blows
Miles, through a golden saxophone
Here the dusky neon lights, snake through
The sprouting city
See the children
Eyes light up
With knowledge
Of what it is
To finally be
Alive
As we, awaken
Yet another sleeping

Generation.

four little letters.

He hates me. My scars; he hates my race, my style, eyes, drive and face. He hates the way I walk; into the room. The way pants fit my thigh; he hates the way I take them off and stress my place. He hates. Four putrid little letters, like _-_-_-_.

There Really is No Escape, for Olive.

The air pierced by the trio of guitar’s, marinara and cracked French bread. Schoolchildren stand, kneel and sit as Wordsworth: Tanaka, Kerouac, Fried, Miel, Plath, and Fyodor ruminate through corridors. Words hug her curves as books are passed, eyes driving fast low and sweeping between dashed and dotted reflective lines. Word’s. Like Matchbox Ferrari’s wrecked at the foot of her quail-feather printed loveseat. Words. We’ll silently endure beyond this platelet pressed night. Word’s.

What will drive us, pure.