Poetry For the heart

 In my father's head, after nightfall slots into the horizon,
swirling clouds of gray smoke flood, filing in between REM convulsions,
forming to a silhouette of a young boy, donning a red, knitted sweater.

His butterfly blue eyes, that time dulled mahogany, flutter softly,
dancing across the man's scruff-coated face, stopping on dad's storm irises,
blending baby blue and thunderstorm gray, between his eye whites. 

 A worm is bisected, sliced in half with a bird's razor beak.

I sit in my pine tree's shade, watching rainfall collect in the dirt,
as carrion crows splash in the deepening mud puddles,
like rowdy children's bare feet, dancing across the brown liquid,
sending a tsunami of muck water cascading through the insect kingdom,
flooding the worm tunnels beneath the earth's surface,
expelling the slimy creatures from the dark holes of dirt,
bubbling to the grasslands above.

Flashing of needle bills pierce the film of water,
as rain drips from the soggy black feathers,
prying half of a worm from the pond-sized puddle.

The corvids let the remaining worm half depart below the waves of mud,
halting their splashing so the water soaks into the soil,
and expelling from the worm's hole-house,
so that the worm half can regenerate, and be consumed 

  My afternoons were filled with mountains of soda cans,
discarded pizza boxes were my floor tiles,
slotting into place, sealed with cream cheese epoxy.

Thunder followed my footsteps, quaking the ground,
kids at school called me "lard-ass,"
while my blood turned to fryer grease.

The gym was a radio broadcast from another planet,
signals from outer space, telling me I was sixty percent fried chicken,
because all normal humans were composed of water.

So I heel-turned on cherry Kool-Aid and microwaved hot pockets,
introducing my stomach to the color green,
when did broccoli like my tongue?

Then, I wasn't made of nachos, but the skin still remained,
hanging like the ropes of a swing set,
dragging the seat behind me like a plastic anchor.

Every day the flaps of flesh mocked me,
mouthing "you can't have abs", nipping at my ears,
swaying, beneath my shirt, palm fronds in the island breeze.

A broken razor blade finds the palm of my hand,
pressing against the dangling reminders,
hanging from my salted sugar skeleton.

Cherry Kool-Aid spilled on the floor,
shards of broken glass pitcher, glittering in the sea of red,
I'm shaped like a cup, but nothing's contained within.  

   Tangerine sky, glowing in the wake of the setting sun,
as it brushes behind the powder-white snow caps,
of the towering mauve mountains.

Colorado's blue spruce trees dot the range, like dark green soldiers,
blending with the foliage decorating the canyon floor,
waiting for marching orders from the howling mountain winds.

My eyes trace the peaks' edges, outlining the last glimpse,
etching the fine details into my brain, with a white crayon,
pointy from the blade of a pencil sharpener.

I kiss the Colorado ozone farewell, with a heavy weight in my gut,
pulling my chest towards the underbrush,
while my lead-coated feet drag me from the trail.

  Fire burns within the confines of my chest,
remnants of a once romantic night,
hacked to slick, red chunks of shark chum,
budding sentiment fruit, now pulp upon her palm.

The machete lays heavily against my fingers,
flexing their grip lightly, fidgeting with anxiety,
feeling her ghostly hand clasping mine,
as I slide the point against her abdomen.

Blood, slick as nightfall's rain, soaks the blade,
making it glow crimson in the moonlight.
Thirteen slashes splatter my clothes,
with flecks of vermilion snow.

Pearl white dress, her heart emptied onto it,
drenching the satin fabric in rose,
petals decorating the sopping wooden floor,
scenting the air a mocking floral perfume.

Closing her eyes with stained fingertips,
pressing my trembling lips to hers once again,
before rivers streak my face,
letting loose a shriek, "What am I?"