Bell(e)

Fargo

All is Wells

On Leave

“Bisque-y Rusiness”

The voices resonating in my skull are to the left

And I've learned how to pop the joints in my thumbs and my spine

And I know I don't look fine

But I only turn red once I’ve already dyed

And can't you see I’m trying to emerge this husk back into the ground where it belongs

Where it can fertilize crops, and wishes long gone

And washed away by the floods before a potential harvest

And I am done being modest, and if we're all being honest-

I wouldn't try to swim away when the pot ascends

and the pot lid descends and

when the pot finally grants me ascension

And the sea hates a coward

And the sea hates a cow herd

And what have you heard

Because I don't remember what I told you

I need a SparkNotes to pass along to the next person

who has to try and salvage the meat from my bones for a bisque

And it's an old twist

On a classic dish

Of equal parts heartbreak and sadness

To the profile that you can't taste anything of anymore

What was

A little heat on some nice spice

becomes nothing

What was

a cool glaze of orange zest and mayonnaise

becomes nothing

Just a husk that the crabs will never touch

And it'll never be enough

And you wouldn't even consider it at a truck bed or a rest stop

And I don't even feel full enough for hors d’oeuvres

And I don't feel full enough to know what I deserve

And I don’t feel enough to know the next word

“The futility of Painting a burning house”

I am painting the shutters on the house that I built,

the shutters pulled tight so I don't notice the ash creeping out

I prune the garden and check the mail and sweep piles under the rug,

throwing the broom over the fence when I notice the bristles are still on fire

The fire place had a leak, and the kitchen sink wouldn't quite drain,

oh well, I’ve been sweeping my hand through piles of ash and rubbing it all over my face anyways

I have to decide what to keep and to choose what's collateral

and what I can just keep not dusting on the mantle

I paint and I dab and I scumble but I can’t scrape away

The blistering and bumble bees that are bubbling up under the paint

The logs are in the woodshed and smoking away almost cheerfully

Along with my volumes of fables and most that I held dear to me

I’m not bothered by the fact that I might have left the candles to fry

It’s a warm breeze to step past as I slip away to let the paint dry.

Honey heart

I’d be a beekeeper if women didn’t have so much in common with bees
Thought provoking from a distance but up close I flee
Every chance I pass of cupping one in my hand
For I fear that faithful sting
Akin to a bat swing
Going through my skin, deep
Enough to come out the other side
But you see, the problem with bees is that they die
And the amazing thing about women is that they stay alive
Long after their organs have been ripped from them when they defend
Their hive, and whatever golden life source they keep inside.

You see, I’ve got a honey heart
And I believe that to save the bees
We need to cure colony collapse disorder
And find the film for the family camcorder
To capture every flower-flung moment when
The bees descend
And make life from an allergen
And I may not be allergic but I’ve learned to keep my distance
Because honey can survive for thousands of years with no bacteria inside
And I’m well are that some people just die
When their throat closes and their lungs tremble and rebel
From when the bees chose to come close and break through their outer shell.