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Literature Text
I gave you Eskimo kisses
while you slept;
I pressed my nose against yours
and rubbed softly
like sex
or tending a baby.
In the black of a rheum
you held me,
shocked but stilled in breaths rancid;
you woke
like a child at once
and your hands have reminded me
of my mother's.
"Were you out late?"
No,
but I have been standing here awhile
like Warhol
without his camera; will you forgive me
or wait until morning?
Will you forgive me
or wait until morning—
frozen?
while you slept;
I pressed my nose against yours
and rubbed softly
like sex
or tending a baby.
In the black of a rheum
you held me,
shocked but stilled in breaths rancid;
you woke
like a child at once
and your hands have reminded me
of my mother's.
"Were you out late?"
No,
but I have been standing here awhile
like Warhol
without his camera; will you forgive me
or wait until morning?
Will you forgive me
or wait until morning—
frozen?
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Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
notesleep
playing my emphases like harp strings
your voice smokes thru the oaken bramble
pour a carbonated apology, a sun-stained
mile marked envelope, two ill-fitted birds,
hands small holes right before a rush of river
what it feels like being swallowed from the outside
crushing rings into truth serum, pretend
to be out of tune with that deception
I have been unable to parse my own persona
a pink cotton voice I remember thru the phone
I remember because it formed me into a granary
one crop after another of patriarchal idioms
whisper my secrets so softly into a glint of red hair
a saucer-eyed lace pattern cut into pine paper
I practice radical self lo
Literature
In Spiration
so you fill your pockets with dirt
and plant fistfuls of memories
praying that someone will shoot
but the only thing that grows
is disillusionment
so indifference keeps the lighter to the spoon
and you draw up every drop of lost souls
aching to taste the ones you had
but some deaths
are bigger than other deaths
so you're only human
and to survive you've done terrible, terrible things
unbelieving in the promises of future
but this
is not the end
Suggested Collections
this is such a wonderful idea. collaboration with the wildly talented 
© 2012 - 2024 glossolalias
Comments4
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Seamless and intimate. Well done.