reading

I want to eat my Tarot cards.

Swallow them in formation,

in a seventy-eight ring of

philos.

Then there would be no shuffling.

They would just appear on my tongue,

fashionably late, in their proper

orders.

I don’t know why the Cups are

upside down.  And why Temptation

locks its tree-trunk arms,

oblivious.

I do know you are always a

wand.  Sometimes kingly,

or immortal child; always

wild.

I am power, I kill home,

I chain myself to trees,

I cannot feel you anymore, I

sleep.

If I did eat them, the Tarot

would fly out when I sing,

and you would see new

pictures.

flee

You are not the Empress,

no.

Rather,

you destroyed their lives at conception.

You were built for escaping

and maddening journal entries.

There are choices

and there are no choices,

like jumping hurriedly from

the sixteenth floor.

Their masks, small, enchanting,

will haunt your dreams

always,

and you don’t have a choice

in that,

even if you cling to them.

horses and the sky

I love talking to strangers.

And running with scissors.

If you jump right off of the bridge, so will I.

I love me in the mirror.

Angling at my self-worship.

Speciously, faithfully, generously applied.

It would be a privilege

To die in my twenties.

God, what an awful long time I’ve been alive.

I am a Knight

Riding out in my armor.

Justice awakens its full ice cube eyes.

Salaciously drinking

From Cup after cup.

Sick in the morning.

The doctor prescribes

More poetry, then I may

Lie in my bed;

Head ringed with asphodel, rainflowers, and smiles.

The latter are coming from a smirking cypress.

Swords caught in its branches;

One, two, three, try.

Seventeen magic wands.

Who could need so many?

I grasp them with seventeen hands

While I cry.