Artificial Angels

Joseph is the past gone to waste,
the zombie I must escape.
Katie is the concept I chase.
Angel is the me I embrace.

Tried walking water but I drowned,
so I took to the skies a fay.
each day I spend much higher
I won’t trip over the waves.

Ride the whirlwind, ride the tide
Whether it ebbs or flows.
Forget where I came from.
Push forward where I go.

[Happy New Year! -Angel]

A revision of Better as a Muse.

The half-hour shower–a refuge
from the grease of moonlight work
and the hours wasted on her.
I’d drown my aches beneath this rain
all day, but her debts demand to be paid
and it’s way past midnight.

Out of the shower and into the steam
chilled with the breeze whispering
through the moldy window she hasn’t cleaned.
The fog conceals nothing; everything
in the dirty towel hamper is mine,
and her toothbrush is still dry.

She’s already in bed with an arm
around my phantom shape, a smile
sculpted on her face like those
I had when I embraced her phantom touch
in my lame high school poetry,
dressing her in jewels and royalty.

Her eyes are not emeralds, but definitely stoned,
her hair is a crown, but the gold has chipped off,
her voice is a violin that hasn’t been tuned,
her face was my sun, but now it’s the moon.
Even her majestic peaks lose luster once scaled-
She’s flat without all the symbolism.

Dull eyes open, catch my stare.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks.
“Just admiring your beauty,” I reply.
She leans forward with her lips; I tense
but eventually submit. We shut our eyes,
and I rest in peace in holy matrimony.

Photo by Sandra Rocha

Rock’s said to fashion firm foundations
but falters during quakes.
To seeds, it responds rigidly;
in rain, it chips away.

Even shells of stone will shatter
when hit with enough force.
Raw, soft, naked, embryo
breaks into a new world.

The sparrow out the shell upset
the flock’s serenity.
They come to coo him back in place
in their lush scenery.

Each word they chirp–each accusation–
an arrow to the heart.
Their flattery is fit with fangs;
beneath each grin’s a growl.

To hide within the columbine
would suffocate him still.
His fight, his flight against the storm;
his Polaris, his will.

Ascent above the tidal waves
of piously dressed rage,
in flight toward the event horizon–
out of the golden cage.

Green tomato plucked off the vine
by five toddler nubs. He grips
with whitened knuckles and reddened face
but can neither bruise nor budge the fruit.
He cloisters it using both hands,
grunts with all the brawn he has
but not one dent rewards the effort spent.
He tosses it into the grass,
wobbles to his turtle sandbox
to rebuild the castles the wind blew down.

Red tomato plucked off the ground
by five toddler nubs. He gropes
with gaping grin and widened eyes
as his slight clutch makes the fruit blush.
He drills into the dimpled skin;
the juices bleed out the torn flesh
until only beaten pulp remains.
He tosses it into the grass,
wobbles to his turtle sandbox
to rebuild the castles the wind blew down.

When sick of her, the best relief
is full release upon her face
of every reason, every grief
(done publicly to her disgrace).

Suffer a bitch: Suffer in vain.
Bile boils out your mouth, if not on
her, on your friend. The bitch remains,
but the one you love will be gone.

Her flattery’s dead calories–
Repentance, vain repetitions.
Forgiven debts cause bankruptcy–
Dignity demands repossession.

Shout every word at her untamed–
Leave her no doubt you two are dead.
You lose her body, but you gain
your self-respect–a better friend.

Your eyes
     Starlight to Avalon
Your hair
     Hot, golden sun
Your lips
     Scarlet gates to Paradise
The key’s on the tip of my tongue

Your shirt
     Lace sheet I nestle under
Your skirt
     Silk canopy
Your legs
     Pearl pillars to Nirvana
The end of life-long suffering

Your hands
     Spring warmth of my ascension
Your heart
     Waves washed ashore
Your core
     Depths of the Jordan River
I enter you–My second birth.

Photo by Ines Milewski

Life within a tower that scrapes the sky
might seem high to the common peasantry
but in the clouds, the friends are few–
a dove or two who hardly speak and never stay
beyond the night another day.
Any face besides mother’s would suffice
but the witch chastises her wants as vice
so she shuts her mouth and plays nice.

Rapunzel could sing but lacks breadth of lung
to break through the clouds with her songs.
Not that anyone would bother to listen–
the prince is preoccupied poaching low-hanging pelt.
She retreats to her canvas and paints
herself in foreign places she’s never seen
among the friends she’s never had but always dreamed
beside the prince she’ll never have but always need.

Should she sing another song on bended knees
in wait of a prince to set her free?
Should she flaunt her hair? Though it be fair,
her head’s too high to catch the prince’s stare.
Should she wade in fantasies forever in wait
of the key to break out of her womb–her grave?

Not in the mood to play, she plucks a feather
from nearby doves and weaves them together
into a pair of wings she declares her own,
hidden from her mother beneath her nightgown.
Tomorrow’s dawn, she casts down
her heavy crown and leaps with final faith,
flaps her arms without thought or strategy.
With all her fight she takes aflight across the sky.

“Impatient! Imprudent!” her mother shouts
trapped in the tower without her golden ladder.
The peasants decry her a harpy, aim their arrows
to knock her down to scrub their floors,
but the breeze blows away their bile
as she plays with angels over the Sea,
pushes aside princes pawing at her feet,
unwilling to settle–she’s already Queen.

The shadows and haze cannot conceal
his glamour–it takes center-stage
the moment he strays into the club,
glitters at night with milky way starlight
so bright it blinds eyes blurred by ecstasy
and liquor. His apple blossom air
annuls drugstore colognes preceding
his flutter through the crowd caught
on him to a booth behind the stares.
He orders a Sprite and waits.

A procession pries his gate, picking the lock
with manicured fingers and photoshopped faces.
No combination will click, no coo cracks
the wall. With merciful smiles he casts them
back to the bluffs beside their rusting trophies.
A green-eyed girl steps over the casualties,
flitters into the twilit booth to try her attempt
to unearth his name. “Oberon,” he finally says
as if to confirm rumors he’s fay, but though
perhaps fantasy, she choose to stay.

She stammers over well-rehearsed flirtations
to lure him to dance. He follows her anyway
onto the stage as clear as night on a midsummer day–
they are the stars on which the underlings gaze,
Their performance proceeds obliviously
to radio hits playing through speakers and static,
to the throng of thralls that stand against the walls,
relishing each step he struts across the floor.
Even those not caught under his spell
dissect each step to graft to their stagger.

Midnight strikes an hour later. He pulls out
from her embrace; she pulls him back
with a pouty face, pleading for a peek beneath
the colorful fabrics he fashions himself,
the frills that lured her in. His cider kiss
muffles her moan, petrifies her in bliss.
He mouths goodbye as he floats through
the parting stares outside into the darkness.
Stripped of the stuffy straps, lit up with cigarettes,
he dreams of his reign in Avalon again.