Burning the bodies of our ancestors to fuel our excess
Sacrilege, sacrilege, sacrilege the pistons say
Punching holes in our umbrella, shitting where we breathe
Apathetic, worn down, I drive my car 100 miles without apology
Idle, and watch their souls fly ozone-ward on the black of my exhaust.
Drink my BPA-free water, eat hummus and crackers
Sit by the shore and watch the offal beautiful upon the waves.
My drop in the bucket, it won’t save us now
Our desert, once grassland now cracked gator skin
Lakes exposing the suicide dead and schools of fish stranded, surprised
Sucking at the mud and air in wonder as their scales dry
The hot winds of change blow strong here.
Morning brings a land forgotten
Wraith dreams of a salt sea millennia gone
The two-lane road stretches into sacred fog
Obscuring the forsaken desert and hinting of a clandestine coastline
Water beads on the windshield, lungs gasp at the curveball damp
Road signs peer suspicious through clouds in a sky brought low.
Yellow arms of dead brush become beachweed bent over dunes
Vertigo, as we are transplanted miles away from here
Not on the way to work. Not the same as yesterday.
The very air incites tumult, change, transmutation
Until the door closes, and the day descends sword-like.
Incandescent sparks against the liquid,
Sweet scented honey, poisoned sickle
Down breasts as white as milk, as dry as bone
Hair flows like water, water flows between the hills
Let go, take a breath, feel the pulse under the skin
Somewhere beneath the stone
Cracks splinter outward, a shell overturns
Crab-walking toward the light
Peeling, upheaval, against the fear.
Comfort breeds a woman, a lover.
Scorn waits in the corner wanting blood.
Scales, balanced silently.
(PostSecret is an ongoing art project where people send in anonymous postcards with their secrets.)
At first it was a word, a sparking stroke, the incense of your hair
Now it takes more, a bottomless kiss, your hands rough on my skin
I pray that in 30 years it doesn’t take my heart, or yours.
I do not miss the lost nights alone, most of the time.
But the constant hum of daily life, of chores, of monochrome love…
It takes more, these days.