#018/100 Nightmare (I)

she walked down the Brooklyn Bridge, an oxidized statue:
jade, black & light grey through the snow. i cannot tell
the rust from her scars, solarized from days long gone--
her reeling on the platform, amidst woolen coats & hats
& an accordion imploding beneath the sign which said
'34th Street'. 'take me away from here and take me back,'
the music cried. in the crowd she kept her disguise &
moved along until she saw the sun. but the crossroads
led nowhere but yellow taxis & snow on the pavement.
'you stepped on me, bitch,' a fat woman shouted &
pushed her. scraps of metal were falling off her onto
dirty footprints--she could not feel her tears either.
they blended into the rusted cracks down her body,
leaving a dark brown trail in the snow. here came
the Brooklyn Bridge, flashlight & faded bloom
of strangers. there must be a place where
she could hang her mind, while the stone
of her dissolved & faded.

Inspired by Janelle Stone's photography.

#017/100 Heat

heat rips us apart into fragments. he tries so hard
to string himself back together, a puppet baptized
in dirt. at every creak i snap my fingers & watch
him sink once again to the ground. his limbs split
open--his arms, then his legs--& the crack dives
deep into his crotch. 'there must be better parting
words for you to say,' i reach out to draw a few
circles in the air. but his eyes are already popping
out while he shakes his head, a tad too violently.
'no, no, no,' he mutters & turns into a scramble of
paint, glass eyes & shards of wood. so i put my
flesh & skin back on & walk off. i have not laughed
so hard in a long time.

inspiration: COH - Near You

#016/100 Folly

#015/100 Waiting

#014/100 Alloy

he's an alloy of blades & a cigarette between his fingers
a scarred wrist on his knee. she has shaved her legs &
kept them closed all night--if they touched her pussy
would turn into orange peel, torn, scruffy & dried.
nothing can save his inferior breed of manly charm--
trembles in glow, slashed words at every turn of
her face: 'you're the exact opposite of what i desire.'
the iron fails to brand, to torture her into submission--
his hope, flung open, crushed like dirt. not her body
like a red feather. she will not sink. so low.

Inspired by Day 13, Day 12 & Day 06, photography by John Timmons.

#013/100 Bench

i want to stop running up the slope & sit & stuff 

my face with oil-based red or butcher my stomach

through my navel. my dissolved journey home &

home is nothing more than a glimpse of that 

fucking park bench gushing down to quench

my hunger. everybody who has a good heart

should love me except i cannot love them back

on the edge of the ceiling lamp so charmless--

we are all solvent. now sit, watch, wait &

you will not cross the line unless i tell you to &

i will dive down the muddy drain instead. 

#012/100 Unborn

She would put her eyes on a plate & hand it to him. Even the blood dripping down her face would taste sweet, the new-found blindness & its microscope, into a world that vanished. 'Here,' she would say, fumbling until he caught her hands.

Her hands were wings; they broke & she landed where she did. 'Here,' he says, leaning back in the light. When she turns to look at him, she is a bird sewn-shut in fright, diving into the lava of unborn love. She can no longer flee.

Check out Dorothee Lang's image and Susan Gibb's story about Freedom.