she whipped in, running.
remembering my name and wearing
the panic of a drunken surgeon.
a twister, ripping
through me like Kansas.
she knows that they can wreck homes,
or they can carry them off to paradise
and in one fell swoop
crash-land – crushing the wretched bones of witches.
stealing their shoes.
someone wise once said to me:
“Take what ye need.”
(it was Chuck).]
i would rip the red shoes off of any crushed cadaver
just for you to know what it is like
to have somebody think that you deserve
something that sparkles.]
in the interest of not getting ahead of ourselves:
she hasn’t taken off yet.
she’s settled, now, across a crowded room.
sinking like a stone.
dead-weight dragging- giving up in the descent.
she is not an anchor.
i can see it inside her.
she went limp in acceptance, briefly.
screaming, submerged – in bubbles –
bursting screeches at the surface.
i can hear them.
“mine,” they say.
these are the voices that hearts find to follow.
hers or mine.
rustling leaves like the wind she rode in on.
the hopeful hypocrite –
she stands half-off the short sidewalk
like it’s the end of the world.
the look in her eye says that she’s been there before
or that she was born there, maybe.
admittedly: that’s a loose translation from the mouth of a notorious histrionic.
and i’m lost in love, lust or longing at the sight.
moving like some moon
in cycle through the crowd –
somehow in the way of the sun.
arriving in frenzied fantasy,
in tow: a sky blushing fires as it fights the fall of night.
it can’t win; or can it?
i’m willing, here.
these words were here long before us –
to describe our decided future
in the gold stones of streets we’ve yet to walk down.
it’s going to be so easy