Beatitudes

I 

Prophet of the Tulips,

you never spoke,

but they still grew.

II 

And her hands on her arms—

crumbling bricks

pool around her thighs

Take up arms

create a visage

in cool waves of fires

and the bright spots they leave

forever in her eyes

III

Into the water.

IV—16:78

Abraham sighed,

sparing air to whistle

away the ice.

I've fallen on the mountaintops,

gardens rising around my eyes

and closing my pupils to sin for me.  

My knees in permanent crease 

and motif because the dirt 

is weaker than blades.  

Round and bitter, 

birthed of flesh.

Never solid, 

gray and pale in daylight.  

Freaks of nature and pupils 

ringed in orange; the death 

of leaves before they fall.

You have no action.

I breathe in! 

My mouth hangs open

and rushes to nowhere. 

 V

Give me water in many words.

Force them

DOWN MY

THROAT

Just bitter off the well-wood,

in gritty stones.

My teeth pop 

and KEEP

my eyes from

SHIVERING 

MY sickness

I'm one of 

those

VI

I hope you live a lie 

you're proud of.

Carve it in the smoke

and let it slither in 

the spaces between 

your teeth

and gasp with pleasure. 

VII 

She snarls on the counter-tops and hopes

for something better; yellow linoleum

and snowflakes stuck to the patio door.

Orange wallpaper, not peeling.