Colors
it was green
but there was nothing
verdant about it
nothing cooling
in its prism.
it was hot
and should have been red;
should have screamed carmine.
I watched it color her
like a child,
always outside the lines,
always smudging her hands
as she clawed at the paper,
stained her nails.
what was red, so red within
beat green and mean,
hatched from hesitance,
an eye ever watchful
on the nest.
yet so many found her kind
and good,
lauded her better moments,
did not see the acid
underneath.
as she etched at herself,
alone,
hoping to bring into relief
that which imprinted early.
hoping to find
in a blazing fall,
that one bush
which would not burn.
Mapping Your Skies
sometimes when she tries to crawl
inside it feels effortless,
as if she’s travelled there before.
other times, though she’s sure
she knows her landmarks
he’s like a new galaxy, and she without
the proper instruments
for sorting chroma into spectra.
still other times
(and this is difficult to say - we all
need our secrets)
though she has found her way
he will say no, no, it is not that
not that at all, and launch a comet
to distract her, a nebula, a few new moons.
science is far from accurate at times;
charting your engrams I read between
the lines and find type you never set,
or words you’ve still to recover,
left in that apprentice’s bin beside the door,
something you discarded
for want of better technology.
put my hand on yours and hold the pen
onto this paper, onto this legend
we are writing together.
help me chart a path in simple script
through your raging stars.
In The Soup
these days, you need to understand the vocabulary.
the up side.
the down side.
the fact that the middle is not necessarily
where the truth lies
or where you’ll be most comfortable.
you cannot be led astray
by old, comfortable metaphors
like the sense of being comforted —
sandwiched.
you need to remember
that today
the two pieces of bread
will tend to have more in common
in their intrinsic construction
and affinity
than you will have with them
as the meat.
you need to understand that being the meat
carries certain risks.
life on the hoof,
free range,
is not what it seems.
the laws of optics may present
a limitless horizon
but one which an aerial perspective
would belie.
always double check your instrumentation
lest your altitude
affect your sight.
lest your inner ear
trust the wrong timpani.
lest the words you learned
when young
betray you, and take their bite.
Trimming The Fat
the butcher says
he is just trimming the fat,
going for the lean.
he sharpens his knife
cuts off gristle and bone.
some pieces of meat
will never make the grade.
he marks them for use as dog food,
the equivalent of horse meat,
something for the glue pot
that simmers outside
the bounds of history.
we get so hungry
our cells crying for a piece of fat,
some energy to burn.
secret societies form
where people huddle,
whisper, the slick stuff
running down their jowls.
meanwhile, the butchers stay busy
flaying words from the page,
bytes from the baud,
making the meat respectable
and safe.
they cut into the clean flesh
of what's been wrought.
given a choice, I would sear
my steak
on a high flame,
watch the molecules dance
released
to inform and infect
other air.
I'd watch the butchers
try to breathe.
The above works are from Jennifer Ley's
cyberchapbook, Ambient Alchemy
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