3 AM

3 a.m. phone calls

cutting through silence

the jagged edges

where i used to tell you about my dreams,

nightscapes of thrashing nightmares

crashing through my sleepwalk sleeping

soft and low i could hear you breathing

as i raged and stormed

sketching my death monsters in the air

static live wires,

you received them

held them in your hand

weighed them

let them drop

massive and writhing

on the floor

i think it scared you,

the pretty girl with the ugly dreams

startled and shaking

i would call just to see

if you were still breathing

all i could see

coming out of my pillows

was blood and bone

i had a dream.

who died.

everyone. all the time,

i howled until the line went quiet.

i still wake

swimming under the covers

the slow pulsating sickness

trapped in sleep moving pictures

i reach for the phone

wanting to unleash them

into the earlynightmorning

but there is no number

to dial anymore

ariel

ariel is with me now

her laughter rattles my bones

her black stench stretches in my lungs

cellophane goddess of inspiration

languidly draped over my face

sticking to my mouth

her asphyxiation grip

her airtight embrace

stasis where i strain

she says she knew you

the woman with the pen

the fat pen held in your head hands

she says to tell you

you did not let her stay her welcome

she hauls me through air

red haired and clawing my nights

you had lady lazarus mistaken

they are both red in their intent

there is no white godiva

only lioness and cannibal

knocking on my mind's eye

i can see her through the keyhole

eyes afire and teeth stretched wide

i tremble in my cobweb corner

scratching the walls

and murmuring incantations

i have no calling

i still own my skin

but she is the beekeeper you know

she is both the honey and the hive

she will devour me

into the shadows,

the cauldron of mourning

her whisperings

made you bleed words

made you inhale your death

suffocating on the world

she helped you construct

out of paper and blood

and i can feel her diamond eyes

cutting my veins

bleeding me onto the page

tell her

i have no calling

tell her

i still own my skin

the painting

the acrylic sheen

begins to fade

sharp strokes

of purple

royal and loud

sweep beneath

the eyes

gray lines

stenciled at the corners

of the mouth

the hand

pauses and shakes

the brush

falters and drops

the muddled water

from an overturned glass

runs down the face

finely

she becomes unintelligible

finally

she is broken

a swirling pool

of the abstract

picasso's dream,

her mother's

latest nightmare

in pieces

she smiles

in dark cracks

of time

she rages...

Stream of Consciousness.

i've got flowers underneath my fingernails. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love. the floorboards creek and shift when i'm not looking. i painted the walls blue so i could sleep. my skin is plastered with ghosts that i can't shake. embedded fingerprints and gaping word wounds that burn when my eyes flutter half dead sleep. the mattress has a valley where my body rests less. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love. yesterday was one of those days where i couldn't breathe and i could feel my heartbeat in my hands. i moved my feet but held my tongue. i scribbled on the walls and waited for it to pass. i wanted to deconstruct my thoughts like a shattered oedipus. artifacts for the museum. but the static was too loud. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love.

Dreamscapes

dreamscapes haunt walking hours

shadowing my footsteps

rolling like fog in my breath

white and wounded

fragmented ghosts

that paint the skin behind my eyelids

bodies that hang from rafters

fish mouths gaping

arms flailing over the frayed noose

hospital doors

and the wave of dread

radiating from the exit sign

bullet holes and shattered glass

dummy bodies on the floor

toes sticky with blood

the woman with the broken face

the smiling neck stitched and raw

waking to sleep

with scratches that span my fingers

searching for who is not there

who is missing from the side.