Day: February 9, 2017

September Tells a Tale

September tells me a story

of children made only of fog

or of the perfect arrangement of fallen leaves

right before the breeze blows.

 

Some children wanted to sing

and others to shine.

 

But children shimmer

and then are gone –

sear sucker left on the ground rumpled.

 

They grow up,

move into cities of wine,

houses of immaculate deception.

Going With Ghosts

Ghoulish women crowd dark corners.

Light glistens on my breath.

There is an evil menagerie beyond the gate.

I am dancing motionless.

There are many cathedrals waiting

to be unearthed in my garden.

 

I want to remember exhaustion

Sex,

Monday mornings,

Gratitude.

I hate Complacency

and the way he makes everything pale

and organized.

 

I’m packed and ready

to follow the ghosts and learn

what they know,

but I dread the low opacity

the cold

being unchallenged

and unchanging

Designing My Own Destruction From Glitter

The road curls into

a ring I wear on my finger.

The humid spring air squeezes through

my open window,

fat

sweet

and loved.

 

Somewhere out there I am a baby

Writing great epistolaries in brooding vomit.

 

In the center of a field,

I’m ignorant,

sophisticated,

too generous,

my senses plundered

by clouds of venom

 

I can’t go back to the day I left

My universe of birth

and I don’t want to.

I rinsed the dust of it from my hair.

I glow pure yellow into the waking calendar,

designing my own destruction from

glitter.

Economics

The graph is depressed,

its lines dragging down

into the gutter.

Do you hear Wall Street shiver,

Main Street shutter?

 

I feed the red line from my hands.

An IV from me to a neighbor

when I buy a frivolity and they ring me up.

It is not enough;

my fingers are shreds of paper.

Our island is sinking into this sea.

Who can we grab

that we won’t drown

 

alone?

 

Pulling on a gold that won’t come.

 

I have a card.

You have a card.

Our leader has a card.

We have no eyes.

Hear the world run.

 

 

My Disease

A little thunderstorm runs around my feet

Then skitters under the sofa.

He is one of many.

I see them in my cabinets sometimes

and once walked into millions of them in the attic.

They scattered.

 

A feral book leaps off his shelf and

onto the lonely sofa I no longer sit on

because I cannot linger.

My disease watches me all the time,

nestled in my skull.

It will attack me from the side

Rip my smiles open and empty them out.

 

I work all day to stay on the move.

Light is always trying to hide behind the future

so I am constantly pushing millions of beams forward.

The shy scent of water cloaks me

as the desert outside the window searches for me.

More bones are always needed.

 

My disease sings.

My disease plays.

My disease paints the back

Of my eyelids with sand.

 

The thunderstorms feed

on my crumbling tears

Third Eye Witnesses

She harvests roses,

rivers,

righteousness.

The world watches her sleep.

Birds peer through her window

like so many anxious dignitaries in a

court of intrigue.

 

She wears the scent of sun

in a vial around her neck.

He will hunt her better nature.

color his prayers with her name.

 

This is yearning –

to be jealous of the air

because it can touch her everywhere at once.

 

In his suit of wool and guilt

he watches her pick bouquets of breeze,

spinning in a plain of demolished satisfaction.

 

At night, he whittles mathematics down

to an immaculate paste of 2

and rubs it over his body

Tomorrow he will wait by the light

and draw her in with his want song.