I am at the brink of experimental writing, so I have decided to start with poetry in the style of Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons. I suggest you create your own little botones de licitacion if you are having "form" problems getting in the way of your beautiful words.  In my opinion, it's always words first, form second. 


Not the way we want it to beat, but beating none-the-less—Is that worse? Not in the mood for being in love, it comes in seasons more than they say, more than the four we try to fit into boxes around us. Blood pumping, hiding intention, only tangling as we grow into our stories, try to shape the story around us, like training jasmine how to vine, but it won’t happen that way. When the sun finds it’s right position in the sky, we hide under shade, too terrified to let love go, how long will it haunt these fields?


Better to keep eyes shut tight, away from understanding or seeing all lies. How can we feel truth? I was seven when death’s deflation scarred my eye sockets. It wasn’t opposite, only altered like every Mariachi band dressed in golden velvets, ringing brass hearts so loud the dead in us all quake. Energy passes between the sweet song celebrating breath in every petal, alchemy of color, now absence.

My father holds me by the bones, leads me under limelight to a dead shiny fir fashioned for shiny purple lips, pearls, no white wings. The darkness is just a different form of light… I’m such an admirer of the soft glow of skulls now I cradle one in my head at all times. Sometimes it will remind me it’s closed away, yet close by; it knocks against my teeth, swirls knots through my hair. Sometimes it will ask me to give it a silk ribbon to play with, instead I give it matchboxes, ask it to make firecrackers for pupils.


From the fire we make clay, from heartstrings: witnesses. Palm-chapel filled with matches, she’s drawing rings around the windows with ash, such small hands...

A venom-heavy moon or the dark side without hands, it’s like on Magnolia street with Spanish moss hanging in soft lime curls low enough for us to graze as we ramble each other’s trails. Shore of Ana Island surrounds nothing but cigarette smoke and tapestries covering the beach, threaded with all the strings of simpler times, only heartache to us now, etched onto skin
or in the sage-covered hut of the heart. 

We’re not talking about red roofs anymore, hardly using words, mouths unable to open for water or ware. Soft grips of moon full of waning, wanting to spool threads of stars around your bluing finger.

I’ll bring shears instead, tearing across memories of creaks in chipping seafoam surfaces,
rough touch of something faint that won’t stay in the catastrophe of the past—So many nights thinking of the foreground, thinking of waves cross-country, thinking of giving you up and not caring about direction or light. Empty palms, done with being disarticulated skeletons hoping to find fire in a salt-bath without veins, not willing to be the wildfire to set off…

Published by Kristiane Weeks-Rogers