The Still Rebirth

I, the scorner of love,
have burned all bridges that lead to me.
I sit on this pile of ashen grass,
Yearning for the fire to cool and time to slow,
For it to seize in existence as I am doomed to live without you.

Farewell,

farewell,

an echo calls as I slide

deeper,

deeper,

into misery and consciousness.
And now what am I? 

A legacy of purple mockery
I, the blooming of death,
have just begun living.

Period

Thumbs drag white cotton to tile    splashes from a sea unknown plead down two virgin legs    heat climbs up to eyes wishing stains blur away    experience came before knowledge    she sits still on the cool seat curious now little fingers glide down to the spot untouched feels a warm wet wild oozing red and brown frosting unlike any sweet cake swiftly    call for reinforcements and mother comes to give the secret wrapped in a box about the journey    to womanhood to breasts to lovers to reoccurring pain    this gift she must keep until it is taken away just as quickly as it came.

The Height

The oblivious specks enter an unwitting race,
I watch from above as they shuffle and quake
past the glittering metal,
I extend to touch an unreachable cloud,
to feel the slip of wind press itself to my limbs,
And graze upon my silver bracelet and polished nails.
The men who ate bologna and cheese on barren beams, only dreamed of such height.

There’s a privilege to this, and I paid the price at the glass door,
for just fifteen dollars we can reach the fiftieth floor,
the observation deck for just 10 more,
the date, the man, the walking check book with a smile that says I’ve been here before,
hands over the card, the sacrifice, the fruit as well,
and the specks below, like Tantalus in desperation, grasp and go nowhere.

I can count each ghost, whizzing by with hard hats on soft skulls,
they wave and clap and share in fortune they could never possess,
at the deck now, I’ve crossed the thinnest line between mortal and god,
I walk across the twinkling glass floor,
the ghosts have faces of worry and the specks have gone hungry,
and the privileged just below me, on the fiftieth floor,
are looking up my golden skirt.