I Knew A Woman Who Liked To Paint Lighthouses.
Her mind seemed to work like Photoshop;
she could turn one lighthouse into a million,
and each one looked more alive
than the one outside her window.
I never understood how her hands did it--
sang so beautifully across the paper
as if they were the seagulls
on top of all her lighthouses.
The way the towers leaped off the pages
was almost surreal, like her artwork
wished it could be a seagull.
I saw one of the lighthouses in darkness
when my hands were awkward waves
crashing and crashing on paper.
Its light shone briefly in my eyes.
I saw the backs of ships,
pushing through the waves and seagull fog.
I hope they'll bring me more colors;
I'm tired of painting in seagull white
and coral pink. Most of all,
I'm tired of seeing myself in ocean blue.
I long to steal the woman's hands
and drown her in my mind -- her voice
screaming for help, but the birds
would be perched atop my lighthouses.
She'll paint me there with them,
and I'll watch her drowning.
Maybe if she paints me wings before she goes,
I'll be able to help her save herself.
But that would mean trapping myself
in my mind again while she roams
the world with her magical little hands.
I sometimes wonder if maybe I'm just
a rough sketch in her notepad of lighthouses.
I haven't seen the world, and yet it seems
like it's cluttered with her drawings.
I feel as if she's waiting
on the other side of the ocean.
All I have to do is hold my breath and float
with the ships to where she's waiting.
I wouldn't have to be afraid of losing her;
there would be a piece of her
on top every lighthouse on the way.
It wouldn't be the same having her broken
up into a trillion little pieces,
but it would be something.
Would her hands also be broken
as I drift into her body?
They would have to be, but logic
is a myth in this world. The ships
constantly flicker in and out of existence,
always coming back more lifelike
like the lighthouses.
It won't take those ships too long
to lose me. When I can't keep up anymore,
just let me go down like the Titanic.
These thoughts are stale, like expired chips,
but I can't stop tasting them. They're wooden
and bland and look like a message
from the back of a Coco Puffs box.
I long to find a thought that is the cereal.
Mother Nature taunts me as she swings
her hips and sheds fake tears for me.
The sun still beats down on my head, though,
and the rain just stings on my body --
like I'm kneeling on rice.
When I find a chocolate thought,
I'll let it sit on the tip of my tongue.
It won't be swallowed -- only tasted
as I taunt others with it.