The Artist and the Muse

Peering into keyholes
Lapsing through peeling skin
I hear the echoes of my shadow

Sightlessly opening once forgotten reflections

When I slowly rise like a seraphim
Making my way towards the Pheonix
I help her make love to a spaceless clock

I am the muse piecing together her life from worn-out cocoons

I live to disintegrate her quill
Spilling putrid colors
That bleed open the walls seams

Passing the rooms that past through rooms pasted into rooms

And even if we only waver in static
Creating nothing but pure sound
I will always be her mouth into the void

Pacing the days that pass into seasons of endless questions

statehood

it's belladonna ladyship with penny royal tea
it's a false widow
exchanging porcelain overseas

it's the brittle little cakes that break
as we take sugar from snowflakes
when neanderthal
needs

it's birdseed and beer gardens
the amber fellowship
of reeds

it's coaxing father T.
to number the parts of his heart
while she whispers siamese
outside the park

it's inelegant,

it's prosthesis, a sarcophagus
a touching of cups
it's mother N. whooping it up
at the steps of
enough

Picture Frame

Reflections in the mirror
don't leave stains
like a cut on the face
leaves a scar.
Torn tissue never to return
as it was.
Pedaling my bicycle
through my errors.
Of judgement, choices.
Who is my friend.
Who isn't.