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broomstick_persuasion
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Name: Karina
Birthday: 5/30/1986
Gender: Female
Interests: I am interested by things that interest me. Right now, those are variable and not quite easily defined:
giant bubbles, pink-haired queers, baobab trees, raspberry-lime soda
Expertise: I tutor people in Chemistry.
I'm also quite good at laughing in public and selling seashells (by the sea shore).
Occupation: Professional daydreamer
Message: message me
AIM:  vaguefamiliarity
Member Since:
8/13/2004
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| (currently untitled)There is a broken beer bottle on his front lawn.
I saw it yesterday and did not move it.
Its jagged pieces will get swallowed up
by veracious birds, with bloody eyes and bloated stomachs.
They will die with glass in their bellies.
They will not break down into the soil
like banana peels and apple cores.
They will remain there long after everything has perished,
after his hands and eyes and the small of his back
have become food for the worms.
The lawn will sparkle and shine,
and dare me to touch it.
I will pick up one piece like a diamond
and it will bite me.
I will scream and curse
while another finds its way into my heel
and burrows so deep it disappears
like a sun-blind mole.
There is a glimmer of light
tucked into the pocket of my heel.
There is a glimmer of light
that is causing me to bleed all over the carpet.
It is love, it is love.
His eyes are marbles in my pocket.
There is glass in my heel.
There are garbled memories inside his right earlobe.
I will never get the glass out.
I am bleeding on the inside.
There is a bird-sized hole in my stomach
that leads straight to my heart. | | |
| Empty Bottles and Cigarette Smoke (still editing)Underneath the skin there is blood.
My blood is ripe flesh and apricots,
riddled with centipedes,
poisoning my heart.
My heart is a butterfly in shackles
with tattered wings and no eyes,
coughing up grey-black smoke.
My lungs are a steel mill worker
wearing fireman's boots and a yellow rain slicker,
planting flowers in the snow.
My stomach is a mass of seeds,
sprouting up vibrant mushrooms from oozing red clay;
a skyscraper on fire
from which school children will have to jump.
My skin is riddled with pockmarked scars
shaped like sitars and dragonflies,
red where it has been touched.
His fingers prod into my liver,
and I vomit up caged secrets. | | |
| asphalt jungleThere were toucans.
Your hands were unformed memories of summer,
your mouth, an etching of an unexplored cave.
We drank cheap beer in your mother's house,
where the ghosts touched me while I slept,
where your cat leapt at the shuffle of feet.
We were gigantic myths with thick skin and blue green eyes.
There were baobabs rooted in our living room,
trunks rung round with ribbons,
and we invited the specters of lost children
to dance with us in the dark.
Midnight stalked us on unsure feet. We spat at her through tree limbs,
arms linked in a primitive dance.
Somewhere we got lost, tangled in the lush jungle vines,
the static chaos of the locusts in heat.
We reached the jungle limits.
You decided we were on an asphalt pseudo-city street,
floundering without our eyes,
dirty fingernails and unwashed hair.
You pushed a button underneath your ribcage
and threatened to self-destruct.
I covered my head,
eyes open, and waited for the rain. | | |
| yes!Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur | | |
| pro choiceMy mother almost left me as a bloody slop of placenta on a sterile tile floor,
three years after my older sister was never born.
"Miscarriages are murder"
I see the picket signs saying,
staring at me with those dull socket eyes,
so when asked if I believe in murder
I ask what it's like
to be already dead.
And how would I feel if my mother had aborted me?
But my mother did not abort me, off into space,
or in a woman's bathroom in a key-lock rest stop in Tallahassee.
She opened up her hands, wide up to the sky,
not to any god but to the vast blue of September,
and made a choice.
She birthed me not by some chance will of god,
or a beeline of my father's most hearty sperm
into the gooey egg center of her then empty womb,
but because the dandelions were beautiful that day
and because she was smiling.
Had she aborted me,
(alien space capsule on to Mars)
I would haven been a collection of cells regenerated into the earth,
an unwavering oak,
vibrant green fiddleheads,
or,
like my dead dog,
a burial mound of tomatoes,
ripe red and bountiful.
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