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tarot readings & electronic beaches

tarot readings & electronic beaches

substances over substantiality has been for a time

the modus operandi; i draw and select of pentacles—queen,

i enter the sand battling barefooted, searching for my dark woman

 

there wigged women shuffle black sand toes

knees knifing, elbows bowed against

tautly turning bellies harnessing hope

 

mostly ignoring rhythmic knowledge, i am found

searching for men with dramatized eyes,

a black night fronds and silver stars aesthetic

 

i am found beneath a wig, a pretension, and a problem—

the people climb imaginary walls, wriggling for some eyes only, but

compliments from jeweled crown women lull ego to perception

 

the moths' wings drowned in urine and sweat

bland colored creatures struggle on blue plastic embossment

lest we slip and land on our backs pathetically writhing in tune

 

and too sand slips from the wide eyed feign’s lamenting hand

i spit small balls of mugwart leaf, blood purging out in retribution

still blinded by sandstorm beards & salt hips covered in patterns saccharine

 

kisses under cold wet sheets, colder cans, and steaming sweatback creatures

clamor from tent to stage, feral and feeling more and less than they'd bargained for

none of this is real anyway, the placement of beats absorbs our sins

 

back for more brew, last day, red cup offered to white lost lips

the five point celestial embodiment of purge, except and let go

the garment touting woman isn’t dark enough, yet one must serve as guide

 

dissociative daughter

her, self, immersed in water, lost in float

the mother scours island; fugue state or worse?

 

all homes of prayer for silence, sand on floor

liminality in paradise; any corner’s a chance

what would Ovid have to say today?

still each enclave, cavern, cove

recalls the melted bones of Echo.

women now would hardly be

mythologically relevant once resolved

to sobbing into rotting.

 

still nature’s incessant longing:

lingering speech acts, howls, screams,

and moans recall a Nympha forever

dejected on all remaining forest floors.

 

as we with screen glance at self

in either black reflect reality, or checking

mechanistically the virtual imprint

of words we chose more carefully—

knowing the staying power of impact.

 

how would Ovid poetically differ

these reverberations, too, out of physical reach

from those he morally cautioned of a metamorphosis?

 

how is Narcissus any worse than us?

if not in mirror blankness, then in social

media portrayal, avatar, or influencing verbal

thrusts toward eternal self-conscious inadequacy

devolved to ego stroking lust or hashtag competency?

 

just because our reflections fit in palm,

on desktop, and in lap, does not make our

stance and angles chose any better than the rot

and flowers they’ve been warning us about

for centuries.

dirty hair

blonde strands as venetian blind,

one eye looked out over past the covers,

placed deeply under her chin, almost to a light choke.

decidedly, she opened

 

both eyes into halo admitting slits.

the brown skinned body angled slightly

toward the window made the first moment

of waking sight accosting—

 

intriguing. a tinge of guilt for being voyeuristic

tried to bubble up, as in the way societally trained

people perform manners

with plasticine precision.

 

large and full—deceptively fantastic

bent over, tightened in

accentuated to noteworthy;

all can be plastic when eyes aren't open.

 

‘she’s right, when she has a guy fucking her from behind

they really are in luck,’ she recounts,

closing shut and scoots her own ass

a few inches,

 

her bed to herself

stretches stretches

alarm reset, most likely to be ignored

to set her into a purposeful lazy sense of panic.

 

‘i only feel this way after...’

 

snooze...baggy black dress, deodorant

in sedimentary layers, as too the mascara,

bobby pins, red pens, whatever, showers

have been optional this week.

 

twenty minutes late,

unabashedly related to humidity

and heavyish platforms;

a different dirty monday.

 

a family story

there’s the time angela’s

body was seen as a ghost;

the living breathing toddler in one room,

quite another haunting

top of grandma’s stairs.

 

there’s the shillelagh,

having fallen in such a way

to defy

childish notions of physical understanding,

parroting for decades your uncle’s tricks

by remembering plastic pink flashlight to mandible nightcries,

and your aunt’s kitchen faucet

sink upstairs

refusing all repair.

 

visiting the great-aunt’s convent once,

more holy water to temple touches;

knees pink with navy synthetic embossing,

burgundy leather beneath ties to ritual creaking;

the prayers and the scent 

of processed body

of christ

the grape juice will transform if you pray for it strongly

and mean it more than you wished evil into playground pagan crossings.

 

the christmas tree stays up too long now that grandma’s dead

the plush carpeting under the ornate rug

hides the secret fake snow threads

you’ve pushed under

in gazing out south shore

hexagonal windows

blocked by hopes of more magic

in july

paisley upholstered chairs never felt more livable

than when you're returned

to mom's city apartment late sunday nights

 

the ashtray with the metal button on the marble

lazy susan, kitchen table, near large window, grandpa's here;

this seems like the most simple way to keep down complaints,

push it down to the bottom, emptied later in the trash bin

please let this be the ritual to keep everyone

soft and transparent alive.