Earthblog

There once was

so much talent in our little museum-

walls of madness and sorrow

where the colors weren't afraid to bleed.

Until I fashioned a freeway

through her garden,

barnacles on her stern,

polyps on her glands,

automobiles through the roses

planted the lifetime before yesterday.

Out of desperation

Belladonna puts down the whiskey

the blade

and her mother's expectations

picks her purse up from the night stand

traces her lips like a crime scene

looks in the mirror with approval

blows her old self a kiss goodbye

and slips on her dancing shoes

carries the rivers in her arms

the wind in her speak.

While I have not become desperate enough

I sit naked in the dark

plucking feathers from whats left

of the angel in me,

watching airplanes

compete with the stars,

smoking cigarettes to shave

my life down

seven minutes at a time,

practicing sad faces in the edge of the blade,

picking up the whiskey

exactly where she left it-

lipstick still wet

on the brim.