the author

It is easier to write a dark poem than a light one.
The light one lounges in the center of my lips,
Pulls my mouth into a hammock
Where it gently rests.

The dark one seethes behind my perfect teeth,
Cannot escape, so it tunnels deep.
Finds fingers, reaches for a pencil,
Slithers out lead
And solemnly sleeps.

My eyes are California skies, bright blue
In the early days of June,
The start of a season
When they do not know how to rain,
At least, not in front of you.

They sparkle sunshine over my hammock smile
And warm the soul that rests inside.
I do not have to write this poem
Because you already see it-
Can feel it slowly burn your cheeks.

Below, my stomach is a colorful jungle
Where swallowed light and shadow wildly dance.
The acid rainforest buzzes and hums,
Awake.
Breaks them down into their parts,
Into my words.

I am not the poem,
Asleep for you to read,
A face for you to see.
I am the author,
The stomach digesting.

So if you happen to fall in love with me,
Don’t fall in love with reading.
Bring a raincoat and cut me open-
Let me take you to the Amazon.