Michelle Nye

Central Light Fixture

Lacking the (right) usuals
attires of reliable blue grays
fixtures in supplicating yellows
the ramrod of appeasing approachables
there was a danger inherently possible
my starry eyed glass coating, dusted thick
was shed, placed off sides, to clarify
exposing the rupture
an explosive rapture

With all switches flipped (left)
over exuberant voltage
ripped through circuits unwitting
intersections of glass shards
drew out the divisions
outlining fleshy forms
lodged in throats here
underlining their protests
stuck in eyes there
that saw it all one way

Polygons and octoshapes
laughed out loud, liberally
amused at the violence
entrails of the subterranean
making a mess
spilling out of my blue lips
without stops or gaps
falling and crashing at their wide feet

Squares and triangulations ducked away
avoiding the intrusive wake
strewn from the deck
to the living room
to the rooms that had been ghost like, sleepy
pulling up protective right angles and elbows
in it to their noses
having it up to here

Straight lines pulled over
unkinked and woke up
peeking around corners
straining stiff necks
to see who would be shaken, assaulted
or married off next
where were the impacts
and how much blood was there really

I exploded in a hexadecagon
and knew no name or face
my eyes blew out
seeing only forms desirable
my skin peeled down
melting the zero temperatures
my throat unhinged
letting words tumble
a waterfall loud and unreasonable

I am (at) left a raw current
a singularity exposed
as violence to the touch
essential to restrain (at) right
to contain with a glassy illusion
of customary well worn ways
allowing a la-di-da, I did nothing
over a live wire nerve
of I can do anything
(centered)

Chandelier (Hung)

Mother showed me from the start
just how I hang up here
caught, suspended, a cool functioning
a disconnected conversation or a snafu
I am a rich landscape
of how to be hung up

With long nosed downward glances
I am suspended by my disbelief
of the necessity for shag carpeting
mica flaked popcorn ceilings
and linoleums in ochre hues
woe are these 1977 blues

Snagged on crossed wired conceptions
and spindly filament support structures
which loopty-loop about
in a self conscious
and decidedly distracted way
I am one shy bulb of burnt out

And I find myself
fifth wheeling around
with a pack of boxy shoulders
pitched haphazardly
drunken on the great heights
and pinched of purpose
we swagger and sway
this family of alternating currents
all hung out and left to dry

Sink (reCollections)

You are beautiful (I am)
You are separate (longing for you)
I cannot reach you (always)

These affirmations are whispered
on dry predicable breaths
through half open glass windows
and eyes that glance sideways
(in an every other weekend kind of way)

it is unclear whether
I should be grateful
or perhaps I’ll spit (I do)
at the thought of
our arms length closeness
feeling like a great chasm
most of the time

when there is nothing else left
no parlor tricks or hopeful methods
(though I’ll have tried)
perhaps there is this room
where unspoken words
fill the empty spaces
collecting in basins unused
around pipes tightly turned
to their off positions
offering room to recollect
(and perhaps I will start to feel
below my waist again)

and so continuing
I am beautiful (we are)
I am separate (together but separate)
You cannot reach me (always)

Gas Pump (Influence)

Your ways enraptured me
a velocity implied
when you moved me
organizing me toward speed
a leisure promised
when you sat me down
talking me into reliance

Your seductive vinyls
and floor to floor carpeting
rumbling in the back of my memory
offered high back seat window views
onto structures heavy with neon;
denial burning through the night
onto a landscape thick with asphalt;
cracked tensions calcifying wrong moves

With each tumbler full decision
to keep you by my side
stiff drink necks
and boxed in shoulders
encroached our romance
crowding my open fields
diverting my wide straight waters
my affection for you
displayed on every corner
my dependence on you
gridlocked up my back alleys

This body of concrete knots
an achy entanglement
of wasted abundance
pleads to take one last look
this brow furrowed at fast food impulses
and cookie cutter desires
demands to free my locked knees
and walk away disenchanted
leaving you a drunken memory
and this time, they pray
I won’t be coming back

Blue Fridge (Bound)

It became necessary
to lay flat my need for you
making due with politely cold edges
dressed up in electric blues
I forgot your subtleties
and feigned forgiveness
closing heavy doors on you

Our woolly touches
and pointed gesticulations
once roaming loose and expansive
are sealed over, painted shut
inclinations are leveled
and movements bound
In this ever shrinking room

Its girth impossible, unassailable
knocks my knees black blue
its persistence formidable
bruises my elbows yellow
stumbling and tripping
I chafe at the effort required
to contain the idea of you

So I will crack a window
and succumb to an insistent inhalation
the tentative fingers of surrender
expose the tracks of the hasty retreat
finding the kicked up dust
of our last knock down crash
settled around the edges of this room

Exhaling into corners and under debris
I will force open this stale structure
prying apart cold shoulders
kicking out locked knees
this lumbering molehill
shuffling, shifting and set upright
will get out of my way
all in order to let go of you