The Process

Tag: rock

I Got a Rock

The trouble with being a geode is
when to crack…there’s that easy cool of
being a lone stone…little comforts
like the smirk of the sun now and again…but
knowing that affinity for the cold that
sticks on rock.  How remaining weathered
connotes fearlessness, which is the point, or
so it feels, anyway, but the body is so heavy even with the
hollow in the crystalline guts.  A desire to
be turned inside out and sparkle in the
chilly air is the motion for cracking.  The
warmth of a home calls for that display of
amethyst…a pair of hands calms the exterior…
asks will you show yourself?  Maybe a warm
mouth to melt in and turn to pop
rocks, like in a dream.  But inevitability dictates that cracking
precedes becoming some shelve-able sedimentary, a
souvenir, maybe.  So you grapple with that poor desire for
fissure–to say, see how my hollowness
is framed in purple.  See how my greyness is so
thin.  And so you are.

Autobiography of a Skinless Mind: 4: Reptile

I dressed up as a starving hooker
for my grandfather’s funeral.  It was a cold day on the island
for September, so
while I waited to leave the house, I lay down
on a large rock in the sun. |I was a reptile|  We

threw ashes and lilies around the land
and water.  |They took their
hurt with a side of bundt cake|  Who is
the girl in the pink skirt on the rock?  The
one with the blue lips.  Is that a
dead hooker?  No, that is his

granddaughter.  I ran my fingers over
my tin ribcage and felt disappointed with the
tenacious beatings coming from within.  |Fickle
heart the heart is a fickle
whore|  The rock was spattered with
dried bird shit, I remember.  It didn’t
get on me, being dried and all.