Silence Lives Here

It's louder than anything.
Dishes fall and shatter noiselessly,
the vacuum's muffled,
the spark of a match is unheard,
the television drones on, muted.
Silence booms.
It wormed it's way
over cleaning rags
and grocery lists,
straight to my heart
and ate it.

A Revelation

I choke on the air
thick with the stench
of surmise.
Biting into that bastard apple
made my teeth ring cloyingly.
A simple optic scan reveals nothing.
You must peel me.
Pared of my skin,
is my viscera a revelation?
Does the tinny taste of my heart
bring you relief?

Contagium

If I held you here in the atrium
for twenty-thousand years
would you understand me,
word for soot-black word?

Sometimes, lying flat,
I rise out of my skin to float.
An apparition, I can see
my marrow is also yours.

If only lunacy were contagious,
you would see me
residing in your skin, your bones.

Instead, I hold you to me
and bury thoughts
between covers of leather-
shelves and shelves of ugly mirrors.

First Date

Small talk over coffee
undoubtedly leads to talking
about our passions.
I can see in your eyes
that the mere mention of my art
throws up red flags for you.

You imagine me
an eccentric woman
in a thrift-store cardigan
sipping darjeeling
and quoting poets
long dead before Lincoln.

I'll ravage you nightly
before ranting in riddles
about cocoons and radishes,
things you won't understand.

After birthing our children by moonlight
I'll bury the placenta
under the daffodils
and insist on homeschool
before I crack.

You'll come home to find me
leaping from the 13th floor
with both wrists slit
hanging from the rafters
with my head in the oven.

Heckled by the neighbors,
you're the talk of the town-
the question looming
until your last days
'Did he drive her to it?'

Back in coffee shop reality,
you smile and say "That's nice."
But I know better
than to expect a return call.

A Beach House on Mars

I marvel at my simplicity;
everything around you whirls, complex.
You sow oats in a monastery
playing shameless and oblivious,
though everyone knows you're neither.
I watch and imagine shaking you
(as if that would somehow help)
and pointing you in the right direction
to your babies, long abandoned,
the lost dreams you forgot about,
to the potential I see, but no one thinks exists.
My goals may be lofty, a beach house on Mars,
yet my wish that you would find your bliss
seems so much more farfetched.

Green Trousseau

Does she wear white today
while I sit bare?

Her flaxen hair flowered,
mine dark and damp?

Do her eyes hold sparkles
while mine brim wet?

Her concealed blue garter
turns my heart black.

Does she carry daisies
while my smile wilts?


PS. Thanks for helping me pick a title for this one! "Green Trousseau" was my original choice, but I had some negative reactions to it. Glad I wasn't wrong about it!

Do you like bad haiku? I do.

Amazed at the barrage of bad #haiku that runs rampant on twitter, my fellow Artwiculati @JonPowles, @SJHatzi, @Wifsie, and I decided to contribute. The following video of Silia and I reading our creations was created by @harrarp. Enjoy!