Birds positioned on tight power lines

Waiting for substance above the prettiest refinery perfuming smoke out of its tower.

I pass by quickly holding a rattle,

Waking the faint illuminations out of the teeth of buildings.

These are our seeds

Our thoughts

Impressed throughout a century.

My death is a private one,

Stretching me over disfigured branches

Reaching out to the tired necks of street lamps.

                                           Yes!

Street lamps that I have cowered under in moments of divinity, in early nights,

                                      In epiphanies

Words like dull and broken spears injure me at night

Teasing,

I cannot maneuver through the loops, gaps and history of letters.

Finish me

Break me

Draw me on the maps

Drink me, because I thirst.

Throw me in the orange flame, because my spine is gutless,

Hunched over plastic key with no affection.

Call me out into the cracked and dizzying desert, because the desert keeps no time.

This is my exit

My memory

My masterpiece.

These are the ghosts I see while driving.

The eyes turn stars and the stink is heavy

The sky somewhere runs, where its bones are full of prayers that give chase,

But oh! So very unsteadily.

It took me a while to find myself

in the parking lots,

amidst empty shopping carts

and people that look like grudges from a distance.

I am the calf that trembles in the slaughter house, 

They are light bulbs exploding leaving nothing in the dark.

auxiliofaux:

© Auxiliofaux, 2012

STUNNING!!!! I will eat these too

My slaughter echoes somewhere in that desert…

One night in Mexico when the house was made an ocean

I was a tiny boat without a god.

All I had was a scar to story my way out of it

And land was a dream I woke up from.

The head is the perfect shade of fire

Ambitious like a sunrise that chases everything out of virginity

This,

Right here, used to be a blank

A virgin

That I flirted with

And left believing

I will eat this until I become enlightened so to spread the light, bending it around corners into the cracks, potholes, and broken passages of my heart… Or not and say I did.

When I go to church I like to throw down a pile of broken glass, thumbtacks, and rice beneath my knees.

Scrape a vegetable cleaner on my skin, place sharp sticks under my finger nails, clothe hangers on my eyelids, pliers to my teeth and bow down crying violently.

But I don’t get as much attention as the woman in the pew across from me, with her silky hair and soft facial features, bronzed engine smile, she’s a clean machine.

My offering is a leftover. 

Here in the train station in Bucharest, gritty, with its vast shiny floors. My situation is intolerable. I’m sick, homeless, I’m 9 years old. I hallucinate amongst our luggage as my sister frantically searches for restrooms. I become embarrassed when a soldier approaches my mother and asks her to change my clothes somewhere less public. We’re exiled, gypsies without religion.

There are as many cats roaming my apartment complex as there were rats in mid-century France, or exiles in Communist Romania.

Princess

To outdoor mall windows

And coffee shop novelists

Keeping their recipes in order

Shoulder to shoulder

There’s no room anywhere anymore

One of these days in our secret moment of excessive genius

I’ll just burst

Politely

Followed by the quiet of my lips parting to the rhythm of a thought

Debris of words collecting in my jaw and I’ll edit this for as long as im still breathing

I have memorized the east coast accent crows have harking 

From atop the walking signals thundering to the sound of a band made of

Tin pales

Clay pots

And cigarette boxes

Out of our wounds a tenderness

That throws itself out from the prisoner hue muted 

Into explosions 

Over highways and dumb restrictions

Parking lots

Housing assignments

Photos with borders

Roofs interfering bulldozed with everything we know

About mornings

And complicated nights

With everything it took for us to read our first book

Our White bones whistle past

A gust of wind

Over our nerves numb

Cheapened by factories 

And towering lights

For the memory or comfort of real madness.

We are in this car

With no stereo

Or brakes

Out of our webs made history 

Printed in fine print

Crossing over numbers we can’t count on

Fingers tapping to a tire tired