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An April Morning

An April Morning

They tore his flesh like paper
their lashes destroying the last stanzas of his skin
until his back became
an incoherent phrase of flesh, unreadable
amidst the punctuation of his bones

Afterwards they laid him down
and wrapped his body in a single sheet of parchment
winding it about him
until he was covered completely

There was so much blood
the man beneath could not be seen
and when it dried it was nearly the color of earth

They woke three days later
torn from desperate dreaming
to find the cave empty
mouth lacking tongue to tell
what had happened in the night

All that remained
was the single sheet of pap

The Motion of the Sea

The Motion of the Sea

There is something sewn into his skin
glittering: an indecisive sea

It might be his father
stolen from photos and stories
memory without motion

The seams read the signature
of a tired child's hand
blurred by the darkness and tears
nights spent crying over the stitches
that kept him from falling apart

Now
a filtered father
made of love from other tongues
as easy as a jacket that
only sometimes feels too small
for the man he might become

Cigarette Break v.2

Cigarette Break

I know, I know I don't look like she does
even in this puddle where I can pretend
that my hair shimmers like hers:
oil on asphalt, after the rain
I know that my face
won't smile as straight:
teeth as even as train tracks
(once the braces were removed)

I know that my eyes are too honest
my mouth is too big
and I am still alone
echoing everything
like a new room needing
the clutter of speech confused with laughter

I know I want you
in a soft and necessary way
that I long to hold your hand
against the edge of my need
until you cannot tell the two apart
that I want to press our bellies together
and feel

The Garden In Reverse

The Garden In Reverse

He bit her
from the other room
unaware of what he'd done

He found her lying there
the drops of blood
two unassuming tears
like rubies at her neck

He put his mouth to hers
and tried to kiss away the pain
when, with a snake's unexpected grace
she opened up her mouth
and poured the poison out, as though
it were no more than a mouthful of words
she wished she hadn't heard

Almost All Goodbyes

Almost All Goodbyes

It is
almost
as though no one is listening

in an empty room
with white shining walls
it is almost as if you were dead

because
if there isn't anyone to lie to
what good is the truth?

I suppose
amidst the endless shouting
after all the whining ends
there won't be much left
but a handful of poorly chosen words
and a handful of poorly chosen beds
a couple of scars
(because bruises forget)
and a boxful of brittle bones
because everything else
dies
or disappears without trace

Cigarette Break

Cigarette Break

I know, I know
even in this puddle I don't look like she does
that my hair won't shimmer like hers:
oil on asphalt, after the rain

I know that my lumpy face
won't smile straight as hers
teeth as even as train tracks
(once the braces were removed)

I know that my mouth is too big
my eyes are too honest
and my heart is still empty
echoing everything
a new room needing
bodies, motion, light
and the clutter of speech
confused with laughter

I know that I want you
in a soft and necessary way
that I long to push your hand to the shape of my need
until you cannot tell the two apart
that I want to press our be

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IX The Hermitby ~epimetheus

Digital Art / Vector / Other

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He is an old, frazzled man, road-worn, but not what I would call dirty. His hair and beard are unkempt and poorly cut, perhaps with a sharp stone, perhaps not at all. He walks with a cane and carries a lantern to help him find his way. He has, most uncommonly of all, a pair of white wings on his back that mark him out as one of a Tengu Yamabushi a “barefooted, wandering, elderly mountain hermit or monk with an extremely long nose” who “takes on a protective role in the affairs of men”. In his lantern shines the Sun, a symbol of external, rational, masculine energy, while in the sky above the Moon, a symbol of internal, emotional, feminine energy watches over our Hermit.

The High Priestess is, essentially, the holder of space. This hardly seems a glorious attribution to give to someone I see as a figure capable of conjuring the powerful forces of the unconscious and making contact with the divine, but much of what I find degrading and inglorious about the concept of holding space comes from being raised in a highly rational, male-dominated society.

Read the rest here: [link]

See all the cards and more at ChibiTarot.com!

The Deck to Date
0 The Fool
I The Magician
II The High Priestess
IV The Emperor
IX The Hermit
XIII Death
XIV Temperance
XV The Devil
XVI The Tower
XVIII The Moon

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IX The Hermitby ~epimetheus

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