Sylvia

I want to write poems for God

But they all sound like a child

Who's climbing up the steps

Of a never-ending staircase.

The steps of the angel following

Echo and creep up the veins

Of walls hand-carved from stone.

The cries of the child push on

Through the bloodstream

And bleed out of her eyes-

And when she finally falls,

Her head lies on the marble stair

The angel reaches for her form

But pauses right above.

She'll hear the fallen feet anew

And there's a man walking ahead

In front of the angel's hollow face-

Tis no angel she can see-

And He's glowing like the stars.

I want to write poetry for God

But they all sound like marigolds

In a field lit by lightning bugs.

And the child is there with Him,

And they're resting side by side.

She's whispering laudations

For the sacrifice and freedom.

And the wings of the angel

Who was beautifully terrible

Stay strung suspended above-

She says she hates modern poetry-

That she can find more feeling

In the insults scratched into a bathroom stall

By a pair of teenagers with pocket knives-

Then words that are written meticulously

By the hands of billionaires and Pinterest authors.

Yet despite what she says

She has your words pressed and inked

In the flesh of her lower back

And she's always said your words

Are more like songs than conversation.

She falls and scrapes her knees

(Alternatively titled "I get off on Catholic imagery")

Your rosary sits in the pocket

On the left side of your body-

(On the left side of your brain).

It's tucked into a flannel coat

And it's got a vape attatched

To the ruby-colored beads.

The light on the pen is blinking

That it's almost out of nicotine

For you to pump into your eyes-

(The world looks different when you're high).

Cotton-candy flavored juice

Is pouring down the aged prayer

And the miniature Jesus is soaked in it.

You'll figure it out eventually-

(when the wetness soaks through your shirt).

But not before you've demanded a remedy

From something else entirely.

There's substance in your pocket

There's prayer in your pocket-

And both sit waiting for you to remember

When you're high

You're often fascinated by the mundane

And this time, you find your eyes

On the hills covered in redbud trees.

They're turning purple as they extend

To lick at the heaven's tender flesh-

Mary Jane, come here a minute,

I'm getting to be poetic again without you-

In the myths the sky and earth

Are husband and wife.

But I don't like to think

That the sky could be a man-

Why would a man be above the mother?

Instead, I think they're secret lovers,

Raised alongside one another,

Soul sisters that whisper to each other

About their children that inherit

The blush that rises on the sky

When the mountains rise up to kiss her.

Mary Jane, I'm lonely without you-

I'm depressed and lost and anxious-

But I find some peace of mind

In knowing they'd laugh about poetry

That doesn't come with love or music,

So I'll stay here with Mary Jane and you

TW: $/H (this is a poem I wrote years ago. I suffer from Dysthymia, so it's very dear to me)

There's something behind you

Who's eyeing the wine

That's running down your wrist.

The creature's wings are folded

Unafraid of you.

It's bending its head

To press its mouth over

The liquor pouring from your veins.

Eyes cover it's flesh

And they do not close for a moment

Even as it sucks the flush

Away from your cheeks.

It straightens when you're weak

And stands before you.

It's voice is distorted when it speaks-

When it sings praise of mutilation-

Like it's being pulled

From it's lungs by rope.

It'll smile at you before it goes

Revealing rows of teeth

That go back into it's skull

In a spiral like a whirlpool.

They're all stained with your life force.

It'll pick up the knife

That lies at your feet

And use it to cut it's broken feathers.

The bouquet of angel wings

Are offered to you afterwards

Bone marrow leaks into the river

From the eyes of a deer skull.

It's attached at the neck

To it's spine like in life

And it's eye sockets are hollow

Fixated on my form

As the mouth is dipped under

To soak up the murky water.

It's looking at my hands

Which are holding shed horns-

The crown of a stag is the antlers-

But when I lift my arms and offer them

She shies away towards the treeline again.

The call that reaches up

From her ribs is metallic,

Like a thousand nails against a chalkboard,

And the forest rustles

As more heads are emerging.

They're all crying the inside of bone

And the flesh wrapping them

Is long rotted away.

I offer each in turn

A try at the sheds

And they all screech and retreat.

Is the evidence of man

Enough to scare a cryptid

The red beads on a crucifix

Are spilling out of the corner of my mouth

And being laced on a gold chain

Surrounding the body of God's son.

Out of my lungs through my throat

The metal is being pulled

And it's blocking my airwaves

For it's coming up melting.

I can't breathe anymore-

The wood of the cross

Is on my chest

And I'm choking from weight of

Gravity pulling me closer

To the very center of the earth

Away from the heavens-

Which are hidden from me

By the wings and the eyes

Of the angels come to determine

It's so much harder

to write poems for boys-

Girls have hardly any flaws

worth putting to paper.

But when I see him

I think I ought to try

Because I wear his

surname around my shoulders-

it hangs off me

like a winters coat

in my imagination.

he fixes eyes on me

and I want to see

my lipstick on his mouth.

I wonder if writing poems

about men is more about

writing a poem about

yourself with him.

I could tell you of him

of brown eyes and

strong shoulders-

but goodness isn't that cliche?

so instead I tell you

that I sense his heart

Is made of complimentary

stuff to mine.

like perhaps where mine

is full of passion

On 14th Street,

Unfinished houses

Are full of mice;

They smell of black mold

Which whispers secrets

To the little twins

Who sleep on a mattress

They share with three

Adult brothers.

The decay seeps into her skin

Tunneling through her eyes

Into her bloodstream

And absorbing into her

Nervous system,

Sending signals to her mind.

Her eyes are open

While she sleeps

And they meet the eyes

Of her match-brother.

The sun and the moon

Have learned to keep eyes

Alert and never muddled,

The mold and mice

Grown hungrier

My best friend hasn't been here in a long time

She stays in our home and counts cracks

In the alabaster walls paid for by dead relatives.

I go home and I send her letters with what I see

Like the sign that's lit up over the $4.50

That says they're born and raised in America.

And the teenage boy in the truck who called out

A slur that pasted itself to my skin

And remains engraved into it so i can't burn it off.

I stand in the middle of a parking lot

Trying to remember how to spell immigration

But I can just read it off of the car parked by mine

And it's the words that head off my letters.

My best friend likes to sit on bridges

And I like to sit under them

Now there's signs warning about ice on our bridges

And I'm sitting alone under it

Calling out to no one over me

I don't like AI. I think it's inherently harmful. This is as a recovered victim to genuine AI psychosis from an addiction to C.AI. I am doing better now, and have been off of it for QUITE some time. It's harmful to the psyche and the environment.

The end of the world started with a spark

That grew into a burning forest fire

She wore it in ringlets on her skin-

Mom says I shouldn't look away from my screen

Because I get less satisfied looking back-

She says I shouldn't look at that flaming girl

Who's smoking cigarettes in the snow-

Her mouth keeps catching red hot ash

And she plants a kiss on the icy iron

Of a donor-dedicated lamppost-

My screen says it's to honor someone or other,

Who got sick and died at twenty-four,

I wonder how she feels in the burning girl's lipstick-

I wonder how I'd look in the burning girl's lipstick.

I have black lace wrapped around my bones,

Pulling tighter so the pattern

Remains etched where it is tightened.

Black lace adorns the shoulders of mourners

Drapes over the faces of the newly departed.

It adorns the head of a girl in a courtroom.

Who is twisting it out of her marrow

And watching it drip down her face like tears.

She claims she is anchored by passion

That her work is becoming her very rock

And I cannot help but find myself agreeing

That she has become her own Sisyphus.

I have black lace carved into my skin

And I would ask you not to remove it

It's a shield to my greatest adversity

they’ve got a habit of keeping

my favorite books in the back

of the shelves of the public library.

they’re supposed to be worn-

nothing like the whirlpools

that suck me further down

whenever the pages open.

the pages are beginning

to become filled with holes-

little moons carved out-

from the burning fingers

of the girl with blue hair

i can see between the shelves.

and when she glances up

i observe the rotting pages

closer as they dip down.

a time will come when I am

rotting away like them.

and I’ll become nothing but

food for the earthworms

who’ll crawl to the earth

whenever it next rains

and be trodden on by

the rubber boots of a

kindergarteners carrying