My original Poetry, Artwork and Photography
Small but powerful thoughts and tidbits of feeling. Mostly unedited and “raw,” faintly sentimental, resentful and other strong-and-fast states of being. Things one might scrawl out on the back of an exam or a napkin, meant to be reflected upon for exactly what they are and nothing more.
The black broth, the cream fissures
in particle trails like living sprites
foam in swirls to the crust of my goblet
in plumes of white steam, bellowing
and bathing my skin in ink
giving me breath and old ideas
this liquid flushes our bodies of impurities
while we sit in the thick, sticky dark
of twilight June.
We both have work today.
Number one.
Get loose. Shake your shoulders out. Your shoulders fall out. Weightless.
Number two.
Breathe through yourself. Breathe to flay your lungs open.
Number three.
Poise.
Number four.
You can crack your ephemeral knuckles because you are now transcendent. Nothing touches you, not even constraints.
my spine might slide out
if I don’t sit up straight enough.
And yes, I am tired, thanks for asking; the bags under my eyes are nearly purpling like orchids. All the vapor has left my body so that I’m a collection of drolling and hiccups and slurred laughter, drunk on my own exhaustion.
I wish at times to be the stinkbug sitting on a leaf of my succulent plant who, in the course of two days, has changed from facing north to facing south.
Never crane vertebrae around bends
Seeking end or other, elsewhere,
Meaning.
Because, it sits in wait, the twin of
A little shoeless child or a dog at
The doorway when the rest
Is desecrated by static and windy livings,
Beings, flatlining,
Dead.
Ana Celeste Poetry 