Some days when I stare into the sky, there is no color
except for the blue pools of your eyes. I dive into the deep end of one, recall the star-filled stones of last night’s dream, and throw them into the blackest memory of a girl crawling in the filthy alley, drunk beat up bits of gravel stuck to the cut on her forehead as I lift her head to see the dull, gray stones in flight, breaking open showering white light, bright truth falling upon her, “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell her.
The girl is standing now, spinning – arms wide-open, free to dive into the shallow end of the other blue pool, hitting the bottom – the world now aglow with its full spectrum of colorsÉ
And now,
I am behind the shadow of the moon,
but I have sunk like the sun to a depth no ocean could overcome only to scratch and claw with bitter determination out of miles and miles of a frozen ocean.
You could still smell the vodka on my breath when I surfaced from that depth, but I have risen higher than the sun at noon-time, shining so brightly I eclipsed both the moon and the sun and I was cryin’.
So I look to the heavens, working 24/seven will not get me as far as the stars, and all the paper in the world cannot make me more than just a girl with a pen and this notebook full of words.
Perhaps Ginsberg will light up the night from his constellation you know the one that Gabriel fell away from, and he’ll guide me on my way, so I can once again eclipse the sun and the moon of my soul.
And now,
I am the color of the sun,
the half-hidden yellow truth veiled in white lie clouds
the sound of raven’s wings as she recovers from a fifty-foot dive
I’m the song that the child jumping rope at this moment sings
the sharp left turn and whoop half-circle of the number five
the long-roped swing hanging from the loneliest, tallest tree
the treble clef of a slow, sad piano melody
the floor of the lake I knew intimately as a child.
Look for me between the sun and the moon.
I’ll be everywhere except for the blue.