Frida Kahlo Mermaid

Frida Kahlo Mermaid

don't wanna spend another day here

that final stop at the end of the world
where the sun melts my spirit and my crazy
notions of eternity
all over the ocean horizon line.
the cliff could be suicide could be crying
could just be sleep and diary and a snorted blue

off the fallen rearview mirror
as the fog bank's fuzzy horizontal
meets my heretofore life like a faded slash
across the word love to make truth of the "like." Correct me

if I am wrong, but you were too high to remember
me singing Smokey Robinson
while slow dancing your sick body across the dirty laundry
and licked stamp bags
on your mother's floor
and you were child like and smiling
and I was trying to keep you alive
because the dose was too much and the love was too big
and your eyes were too blank for any of it to survive
if it fell asleep for even a moment and I didn't

but I do and I don't but I do
and I couldn't anymore, but I did
because you asked me to, because you needed me
because I knew the words
and I knew you
and I meant it all: my lips on your neck
my unwitnessed tears, my most perfect
private queen cry unheard
and our sad desperate onebody reflected black and grey
on the glass of the big screen
like some silent old reel
because even when it happened it wasn't,
but I grabbed you and said
take up your bed and walk
and when you stumbled I sang
something painful on purpose,
and put us into the akashic-
the lovers poorly
decoupaged over the falling tower,
a tarot and a flaming heart, all for you who never

loved the life saving serendipity of shed diamondback skin
left lying on the dirt of the could-be cliff
under the front tire at the exact moment I stopped,
three thousands miles away and I said it still won't be enough
but I can't jump
because if a lover
falls into the sea and no one is there to hear her
she doesn't live to tell somebody, anybody
that we had this one, this one
really beautiful moment.

who knows

dream that i'm kissing a girl who turns into a jock
and i say no, but he doesn't listen.
then everything shifts to a police station that is a principal's office
and they're handing me a rape kit
which is a questionnaire drawn by a child with crayons in sloppy colors,
big swoops and circles and stick figures: a woman's body all weird and wrong
by some kid who couldn't know better.
I wake up and I don't know what it means, won't ever,
but wow, really, crayons?

The Problem With Breaking Up With A Rich Boy is a Joseph Cornell Box

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is

that he brought you into a new world, safely by his side.
He said she is mine and so is all of this, for a limited time,
it can all be yours. Like the Last Temptation of Christ,
Savior and Satan on a hill, which one is which,
we both know one owns it all and one doesn't have shit,
but I cant claim Grace because I didn't say no.

I said oh, yes please.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
a Joseph Cornell Box.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
a catolgue in the mail six months later
full of beautiful things you want, but you can never have
and it has both of your names on the address label.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
an oil stain on my favorite dress
and welfare offices in my dreams
and his mother painted and framed all over the walls,
healthy and free, while mine was in a psych ward
or watching tv in a trailer

on a couch shot up with cigarette holes.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
the way I said to him, your mother is beautiful,
and he agreed and called her the Earth Mother
but didn't say it back to me

while I fingered her crystals and smelled her white sage
and prayed at her altar covered with paid for Grace
gilded in gold and layered in glass
of pique du jour stars like delicate lace
of infinite good luck, chance,

and zeros in sixes
and I say, so is mine, she is just a little polluted.

And what is Pique du jour anyway?
Who knows such things? Who owns such things?
Who ever heard of it until him?

Who has so many oil painted portraits

hanging on the walls? Jesus, what does it take

to get a six year old kid to sit still

for so long? Someone in my family

once got a charcoal caricature done in New York

on the streets from someone for a few dollars.

The problem of breaking up with a rich boy is

that his mother owns two original Joseph Cornell boxes
because his family is old, old money
and his grandmother owned an art gallery
and they have two, he mentions modestly
while you're safely by his side at the MoMa.

He tells you about his grandmother.

He says his cousin is making a film about her.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
that this movie will be made and you will see its name
all over the marquees when you walk down the street
carrying a picture of your own grandmother, may she rest in peace,
and you'll wish you had the money to make a movie about her life,
the big breasts of lived-through hell, ever-comforting flesh,

the bingo and the babies,
the Trail of Tears velour picture above the old organ
she taught you to play before she gave you canned chicken noodle soup
with stale crackers when your mom and dad were away

always working.

Her husband lost his fingers in a mine explosion
when she was a waitress at the racetracks

and she had no extra money and no extra time

for things like fine art
but she had enough heart to organize a theatre troupe

of poor little miners' kids
singing Mickey Mouse club songs to old people

all over those company patch-towns along the Monongahela.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
a Joseph Cornell Box. His mother has two

and Christie's Auction House called her
and appraised them at three million a piece

and you were so shocked
with the unimaginable number,

that could-save-the-world kind of wealth
sitting in storage, so you made nervous jokes,

is this the Cornell box, you asked

holding up the tissue holder on the back of the toilet,

because, god damn, who has that much money

and who was Joseph Cornell before him
and who is Jospeh Cornell after except for him and always him
and you need that beauty just as much as anybody,

you need the surprise of birds happy behind glass

and ice cubs that never melt

and worlds beyond your own always within reach.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is
he couldn't imagine you and never saw you

and you never saw him
because you couldn't get past the rich to the boy

who needed love like anybody does. You loved him so much,

but always hated him some and he knew it.

The problem with breaking up with a rich boy is

that paper birds can't break glass

and they certainly can't fly

and Christie's said the Paul Klee needs a frame

and your mother is full of shit

and so is mine

and it's true that I never respected you,

but I saved strands of your hair all the same

and I may not have money

but I have dirt under my nails

and that time on the hill?

I was just being polite,

playing the part.

I didn't want any of it.

Handmade Crusade

I've started a new crafting blog. There will be personal stories and pictures of my creative process. Tutorials. Features with other artists. Interviews. Gemstone profiles. Give-aways and so much more. Follow, subscribe, and stay tuned.

Handmade Crusade

Frida Kahlo Mermaid

Frida Kahlo Mermaid by Deer Girl Designs

See more pictures here.

where toward

language is what makes us human, she said. having our hearts broken is what makes us like god, she didn't.

African Coin Bib

See more pictures at Deer Girl Designs