the heart of a broken story

the storm parts to reveal a new season. the days are darker, but the wind is entirely unfettered, a pure violence shaken loose by the summer sun's incision. A wound so clean there is no blood at all - a scrape like a kiss. Aloneness is like going home - rising up to the sky you always imagined you fell from like overripe fruit. now my languid peach flesh hardens green and huddles roots into its stone. its earthy sweetness breeds comfort's growing vine, twisted around days, like so many sharp sticks, only to turn around to creep down over its own shadow. I huddle inside this great anticipation and my voice echos against its shell. I eat candies and read poetry in a white bed, insenced like a shrine. i seek purity, spun some like some fine sugar in an impossible chaotic tangibility for sinking teeth.

summer scraps:

jun 8: the green leaves spin in the tumult of the rain
the air circulates in discomfort
they sob and shake and dance
moving lucidly, pinned to their branches
trying to loosen their clutch to the root
and blindly locate the sun
but the spindle of the air
winds gray round it like
a spider's nest, cottony lightness teeming with black urgency
the oak's green fingers applaud, applaud
clap, soundless, against the air
whispering: down, down, hush
the great roots simmering
the earth heckles and moans

those on the outside are being born
into sunlight like perfect, gold gods
that crystallize, finally, when the sun
stakes their small hearts in a blessing
their glory filters into my dreams
small inside my nested mind

june 12: the house smells of lamb sausages and chanel. i haven't had a drink in 11 days and am feeling remarkably serene.

july 7: my face, the little circle of madness in the window. . . the madness of trying to sort out the madness of the mind.