And today my one strife is emblazoning incisions in a tome
For an open-heart surgery. And today I beat against – beat my body to a pulp –
Stone archways and doorways all through an imaginary Rhine divested of
Character. The phrase “I’m poor” wringing my inner-ear like cat candy.
Today I feel – how worthless –“I feel” “I feel;” These are completely words
I churn into a somnolent machine who refuses to transmit joy,
And cracking the code means putting your head in an oven. What?
Tag: short poems
My father’s turn for Sundayschool unearthed
In tender minds the same way as a newborn
Full-breath, how fear could molt a ripened fruit
for squeezing like a heart to taint to taste to rule
And juice, mingled with the old pages splayed
My father’s gospel was beating drums.
To scare the devil with hot fruit fire and
His phobias, with stone bodies flexed
And I did, I smelled citrus in the cemetery.
Strung like beads of light amidst the graves
We did not wake the rocks with laughter
They’d think our feet were thunder.
The invention of music
After the pain
The stretching
Sore willow wood
At strained resin arias
Each violin cried
For a great truth
I sensed a chorus underground
Lurched the shoes and smoke,
would break cathedrals in half
when it sounded up from the rock.
In a dirty limestone city of Christ
The underworldly plains rolled out
bruising skies, and birds the size
of men, who rattled in their clothes
The gems between their fingers
glittered like red stars from roofs
and opening the thick black dirt
grew and grew a quiet coliseum the
voices marching up
I cupped the back of my hand neatly in your corners
Like a wave.
If your blue eyes had a breeze they would,
The cool wash up through
Force
Stone dank and dark underdown
Archaic stairsteps
My soundproof head capsuled
In the moss
Until you touched it
Neatly unfurling and so quickly
Untangling in an inhale like ink in water—
Ana Celeste Poetry 