November 6, 2005

Not a Monolith

Posted in Poetry at 11:56 pm by Kristiina

I am a wolf who wears these streets
thin and silently graceful in choked lights.

Insects march the road in crooked rows;
the moon draws a canvas of their fears.

I was six-legged prey only yesterday,
barren then, playing chess with the cold.

Fever stalked me: stubby legs, five-foot-four and bald;
I measured it pacing in my wake.

Tied to a rough grass bed between sliding walls,
silk writhing against wrists, yet a destitute.

Leaves sigh ballads to my feet
I dance the asphalt red, dance until it cracks.

I am a released, re-carved story to be told.
My shoes drip blood and salivate escape.

July 27, 2005

Morning

Posted in Poetry at 12:00 am by Kristiina

Steam rises.

A hive of bees in my wake
hums like you, awkwardly close.
I happen.
You surpass.
I am grass, rarely cut. I hold trees
in my wet, leaning embrace, crying dew
when morning comes (what a relief).
Robins call me in hazy summer midmorning
pecking for a show. Everything I inhale
passes lungs in a stream of longing
for your lean legs, morning stubble;
for your wicked, casual, windy smile.

You cut me, polish me, oh;
I am your post-coital memory.

April 13, 2005

Crossroads

Posted in Poetry at 4:40 pm by Kristiina

He, an absent-minded Dionysos rolls
long forgotten wine on high-speed tongue
while selling souls of maidens
for a healthy dose of crack.

This trance beat is his war drum,
barren, his veins would thunder
                        thunder,
                 thunder
and I find absolution in his arms.

That surfer on a rocky beach calls
for stereotyped green lights. Poseidon knows
so many ways to dance his solace
as he cradles me in nauseated hope.

Quickened breaths and changing lanes,
he is my freedom in disguise:
                       fallen,
                  fallen
I ride to ecstasy and drown.

These casually rewound stories
make me dance on Sunday mornings
without gods: no wiser
as I rise and fall with naked tides.

Worn out coats are shed for better skin,
electric labels mark my birth.
An ambitious human hangs
on my nonexistent sleeve.

 

March 27, 2005

Dreaming of Solace

Posted in Poetry at 4:28 pm by Kristiina

I am almost healed. Airplanes
turn into witches in the sky.
Borges stole my heart
in a drafty canyon, edges raw
as a reoccurring thought.

My fingers burn with greed.
I hunger for Argentinean hills
on midnight walks, passing
drunken laughter on the sidewalks
of the homeless, shoelaces untied.

Echoed plains call for me, faded silence
and stones that whisper goodbye
in autumn’s voice. Longing.
Moss covers half-burned photographs
as the wind cries dust my way.

I am almost healed.

Skyscrapers cut the moon in half,
I hunger for Buenos Aires.
Turn off the lights and my eyes:
the wind licks my breath
on its way to a canyon in the air.