Ex-Sonnet: Something Beneath the Library

The past few nights I’ve dreamt a stair abyss.
Every narrow city was electric.
Technicolor compasses melting under carpets.
It seemed I was a speck of ink on music
Despite the darkened picture frame and wine,
Each animal collapsed black holes in rooms below
And almost hell’s where I’d wake up at day.
Some secret vacations existed in a dictionary
Some soiled taupe school cardigan
Some hiding cosmic threat to waking peace
In catacombs where no child thought to look.
Along the hall which less and less grew worms
My sweat confessed the staircase was a maze
Where every sky became a clean white glaze
The last I slid on a black and cracking bridge.

 

 

Salem’s Redemption

Part two,
You tilt your chin to the singing sun.
Brazenly trudging like the vandal you are
To Middle-ground, bestial, bruised,
Mushrooms ringing your ankles
Like minnows. Thunderstruck,
Bucks started, tagged your black eyes femme macabre,
Receding like seeds from you, Queen of der hexenkries
Nigh woman or girl, but hellion with breasts.
Because clearly you’re Hera
Fair Contessa reigning Amazons
Weaving their pleats with perfume and barbs.

Day 2: my veins are now vines. 

There’s been another security breech in which my capillaries have
shed like snakes and are now webbed rhizomes. It had, all along,
been a conspiracy of spores. My wrists suddenly shone green while 
I wrote, photosynthesizing at 3pm. A hand jerked to my head to 
check if there were leaves and there weren’t; I breathed and let 
my vascular neurons pollinate, microscopic blossoms bursting with 
every fired synapse behind my eyes. The vines filling up my casing 
stopped. But, at that point, I found I wanted them to burst from 
under my fingernails and take up the pen for me; they never did. 
Nor did the bees stick-and-poke words on the wall or my skin 
yesterday to help me decipher any code.