Xanadu
 

Smoke is still smoke, whether it wanders up, in singeing spirals, from the tip of a lit cigarette sitting on cold stone, or wet log tucked away in the woods, half mile from your home. It’s the same, spewing from parted lips and constricted lungs as it is on soft cushion, in your childhood home sinking in a dome of sweet singing, a familiar symphony, and the waft of warm vanilla cake by birthday-candle light, in sugary swirls, wick dipped in frosting, and licked clean, kiss

A door is still a door, No matter what pushes, pulls or stands in front. No matter who holds the handle, or uses the sensor, The hinge will move. The door opens & closes for anyone or anything. Whether it spins, slides, or waves in. It invites anything. Inviting the bored child in the hotel lobby To spin the door. Inviting the adult that treads the tracks of life into the train. Inviting the carcass into the casket, closing,casket closing, Sealing it away from the clear day.

Ink is still ink. Whether we write a love letter, or a tearful breakup, or an inauguration speech or a graduation farewell, or a welcome letter, or a sad-filled goodbye, or a “get well soon” card, or a eulogy. Ink is still ink. Whether it sits in a pen, or in a bottle, or on the tip of a feather, or spilled on a desk, or dried on a piece of paper, or right under someone’s skin. Ink is still ink. Whether it’s used for aesthetic, or whether it’s used to fill an empty voice.

Screaming children and music all too loud, some suburban family home. A rope hung heavy in the doorway, in their faces, forever ignored. Frayed and flimsier at its ends, trampled and trudged through in the middle by dancing feet on the back garden floor. Adults choosing to pretend, speaking over the thought of the rope they left swinging, hanging, and forgotten.

Glass is still glass whether we gaze through it or shatter it into a million pieces or make a mystical mural or hold red roses or clean thoroughly to take a pretty picture or search for on the beach or step on unexpectedly at a dark sketchy park or wash with sudsy soap. Glass is still glass whether it holds pink lemonade or vials of blood, bright green acid, a mothers warm tomato soup for her sickly neighbor or a sourdough starter. Glass is still glass cover

My confidence is a mirror in a fun house. Distorted, changing and uncertain. It transforms at each glance. Twisting and contorting. Subtle alterations setting off endless reactions. What once felt safe and calm, now feels dangerous and agonizing. As the mirror contorts and shifts, my thoughts get louder and louder. I look to the left of me, a shard of a shattered mirror lays on the floor. But there’s someone next to me, I watch as they stare at the broken image of themselves

The fading sunset over the city by the Bay. A hot cayenne makes a powerful statement. A Muni stops at Market Street. The scent of bark across from Marin. A cable car crosses Van Ness. The box of Rice A Roni on a stove. A bed of roses by the Wharf. The angry man stands with rage. A bright sea of taillights of commuters going home. The seat belt click in the roaring Mustang on Geary. A puddle of blood following a fired 44 Magnum. The awning over a Chinese Restaurant. An electr

From Disney Fast-Play on the DVR To picking out a reliable car Monster High Dolls on a carpet floor 2am laughter muffled by a closed door Blunt bad jokes that shrug off life Slices of mango that slide off the knife Bitter black coffee with a bit too much sugar The crunch of a leaf and the wind that took her Pineapple scents from a curly hair routine Smiling as it finally feels like me Lively family dinners almost every night Dreams of a dorm room with warm fairy lights Paradi

Tides swayin’ slowly above the twinkling night sky. The serenity of the moon lit atmosphere fills me— illuminating the flecks of diamonds embedded in my hair. My pale skin and cyanotic veins glow. Midnight shines like a frozen glacier dancin’ with the lights, revealing the tear drops streaming down my face— I am a shattered vase. Typical bruises painted on my skin like Starry Night. Yet I blossom under the lunar glare, a translucent vessel exposed, just as petals who bloom

The butter on your morning toast. Honey in your tea. Fuzzy reflections of a candle. A type two ticonderoga pencil. The discoloration of an old books’ pages. Sunlight dancing through the trees. Hearts of daises. The lines you don’t dare cross on long winding roads. Unpredictable, confusing, Warm and sweet. I am a girl, But on these pages, I am more. I am sunlight. I am a flame. I am comfort. And apparently– Butter on toast.