Persephone Descent

Persephone Descent
I am Persephone, wild and beguiled.
I summer a princess, but winter in hell.
My air holds the sunlight,
My eyes dark with midnight,
Of springtime I sing but of sepulcher smell.

At gravity's bid, I descend without end.
I freeze and then shatter in Hades' embrace.
He sucks and he claws me,
And nothing will thaw me,
Debased with his black frost, resigned to disgrace.

Dawn, I awaken in shudders and flutters.
My true lover welcomes me, anguish concealed.
The ice on my heart cracks,
But my womb, it roils black,
I carry my shame, as of yet unrevealed.

Insidious spawn, abiding inside,
A parasite seedling of underworld sown.
Burdening my lightness,
And suckling my brightness,
Poisoning me where exuberance once shone.

I am Persephone, mistress and listless,
Fettered, possessed for a season each year.
Look away from me
Lest you become me
For sharing these shackles is my greatest fear.

Brad Paisley Doesn't Know the Half Of It

You’re the smile in my laugh and the quirk in my smile,
An awkward seduction, but flawless beguile.
You’re depth-charge espresso, you’re cold feet, warm core,
You’re a wet inner-ear and a drop to the floor.

You brush me with thunder and light up my eyes,
You’re forever to bed and much later to rise.
You’re a touch on the back and a skip in the heart,
You’re a glance at the clock and a beautiful start.

You bolster my passion and make my knees weak,
You’re the five-o’-clock-shadow-born chafe on my cheek.
You’re a jazz vocal solo, a country guitar,
A clean-cut persona and rummage-sale car.

You’re an awkward-length forearm, a wonderful scent,
You’re slow to catch on, but rapid to repent.
You’re a hand on the belly and kiss on the nose,
A secret romantic I love to expose.

You’re many a thing and you’re hard to define,
You’re a prayer and a blessing; I’m glad that you’re mine.

Surfer Boy

You ride my tides like a slick-styled sea surfer,
Afloat and thriving in the turbid swells.
Out of nowhere, a white-winged wave will whip you down,
Roll you like an underwater kamikaze
Thrashed by the leviathan of an ocean of emotion.
You surface, sputtering slightly,
Saline seawater trailing from your eyelashes,
Only to sigh succinctly, smile with the spark of adventure,
And once again begin to patiently caress the surface of the crests.
You surf the flow high and low, shallow, chasm, calms and storms,
Riding smoothly, aptly, imperviously, like the athlete you are.
You know my gravity and atmosphere and sometimes
You pressure and pull with potent power
Just as subtle
And just as prevailing
As the tenderly glowing moon,
Persuading the very tides you ride.

I Feel Redundant

I'm not
I'm not
I'm not okay...
I didn't expect to slide this way.
I think
I think
I overthink
But I think it's because I feel like a fool.
I feel
I feel
I feel redundant,
Like I've made these mistakes
And had this talk
And went on chugging past the signal lights,
Like a freight train stuck to her rails.
I know
I know
I don't know why,
But I know it's shifted
Shifty...
Shitty?
I've always despised starting over.

Sometimes
Sometimes
Sometimes often
I'm too tired by the end
To start again.

O-Chem With Dr. T

Colloidal words pool

behind his lower lip,

dribble steadily from

the corner of his mouth.

They creep in rivulets

and stagnant puddles,

sticking our soles to the floor,

sticking our souls to the floor.

Students, now statues,

glazed like donuts but

bland as oatmeal.

Snowflake Disparity

The snowflakes groped me today,

Audaciously bypassed my sloppily knotted scarf,

Slipped beneath my neckline,

A glacial caress.

I was immediately violated,

Despoiled by precipitation

Dribbling obscenely down my chest.

Although analogies aren’t in vogue,

The gusty grip of the weather was

Very much unlike your eyes,

A mystifying melody of a color,

Warm as cinnamon rolls and

Bright as a newborn crocus.

The wintry whisper was

Altogether contrary to your left arm,

Whose pulse I can feel like

The rattle of an old radiator,

Stalwart, welcoming.

The frosty infringement was

The direct antithesis to your

Plain befuddlement,

That gently glowing chuckle

When I said,

"You smell like pasta spices,"

And your buttery delight when you made me

Sheepishly repeat it.

So often I wish I were a painter,

A photographer,

Employing anything,

Anything but this clumsy language,

These spatters of uncaring consonants,

Anything to open wide and just

Receive

The sanctity of snowflakes under the

Lamp-post’s luminous sigh,

The ebb and flow of your breathing

Beneath my stethoscope shoulder.

Saturday, Six AM

Spring break sweat,

Something inside all citrus-squeezed,

Juiced to a pulp.

Rope around wrists,

Salty-sweet captivity.

Labyrinth-laden,

Looseleaf languish,

Anguish,

Anger,

Bitter bile.

Serpent's skull beneath the bed,

Ambiguity, so she said,

Double standard...

... so he said.