Asterid Ericales

Storms throng a luminous body.

Emptiness

on barren farms,
a forest,

and quiet things without man;

the woven pastures

where she could be still.

An African dessert flower,
she preferred to leave the city nucleus

while she was still in bloom.

But the crowd cried back

screaming giants at her

fortress shield and sent her
running for cover.

Tomorrow sprung from yesterday’s bud.

we’re melting under pressure,

we’re breaking, softly, stained glass,

we’re pouring magnum from our cores

and spinning on our stomachs into copper.

With the earthly center

in her scope and silence surrounding,
she postulated

how freckles are fixtures.

She observed the pulse of a nerve,
scintillating lanterns and verdigris;

the way mold inches on a grave.

"We’re all dying slowly,"

she whispered, "but,
I’ve seen man's laugh lines

orbiting
like wandering suns

on the crest of his lips,

pale and parted."

e. chayes

Slumber Undone

i am malleable. my body sinking down. i am stubborn. i am wild and electrical; from dust i came: legs and verdant eyes, bones and a mane reflecting moonlight from the sill. my limbs spring in loneliness, though alone i am not. my knee curls up to its other and i am bare. cold, 'til i fold for the raspy record mockingbird. crackle soul crackle. spin spine spin.
limber are those burning wicks, the wax smearing vanilla into a stale room that used to be mine, and still is mine, but has not been mine

for some time.

the remnants of one pale-blue-phase ago (when i was young and clever and wanted stickers to be stars and imagined sponge paint for clouds) are dim on my ceiling looking, somewhat formidably, upon the hole in the closet door. the hole was caused by a swinging latch and a metal lock in a moment of pale-blue anger that had caused me to remain sitting and stunned -- painting, repeatedly, my index finger the shade of a pearl. when the little bottle of sheen ran out i escaped to virginia with only nine dollars and slept in a lair of a woman i used to say was my sister. her room smelled of lavender and what ensued was some degree of violence; though lavender is sweet, and sedates and becomes me, upon my better senses.

but violence is rather fleeting and so is, sometimes, love; though not the unconditional kind. and in moments when my guard is down and streams of consciousness seep onto the page, i find shards of truth. or at least what i perceive to be truth, from the webs we weave -- if you agree with Weber and the socially suspended.

i don't enjoy the music now because it's overplayed but i am filled with life or lack-thereof because i came four times this afternoon to the table where legs were unnecessary, because the tabletop was floating. now i am up late or early and i am turning into stardust and listening to a man who lived in the woods and wore, well, his beard so he could sing with every inch of his insides covered, and he too turned to stardust when the clock struck dizzy.

e. chayes