Tableau of Realism
Her barely tended fire
The furniture in gold raiment
Windows yawning
Into the gaping hole of night
Scourged by street lamps
Eyes shut
The wood veneer everywhere peeling
Him burning alive bellowing
Month: March 2017
Ultraviolet Mafia
Ultraviolet mafia
exacting private taxes on the air.
Oxygen is an independent element.
Yet shrieks when hydrogen is rended from it.
Hi.
I am a neutron.
Hi.
I am an imaginary number.
Hi.
I am dark matter.
Light blows this way
then that,
a cheap exotic dancer.
Contortionist.
Extortionist.
And always the ultraviolet mafia
is skimming some off the top.
Black Pink
Black pink
Space in a coma.
Sugar up and down.
Sour Sundays stay out of sight.
We are not as rich as we think we are.
Yet I have an untried umbrella,
a love of picket fences,
and black pink.
From Generation to Generation
In the room with the low light
and the high shadows
she says hello to her grandmother,
her grandmother’s sin,
and can’t see Heaven for all the Earth that lies ahead
on her head.
Like Fish
The machinations of weeds often go unnoticed
but I can feel the dandelion’s dark intent.
Inside my computer are vices I can’t explain
and virtues I won’t.
What battles for more are fought silently
in a world of less and less?
I was born in a gold mine.
Gold is a poison.
like fish we die far away from home
in houses that will immediately be given to someone else
The 1st of November
The 1st of November
A photogenic witch is caught
with her jeans down
(Do you know even traditional witches shop at Abercrombie and Fitch?)
the day after Halloween.
Gets in trouble for being out the day after Halloween.
There is a season for everyone.
and mine for you was the summer of my life
when you were the glare I saw reflected in everything.
It is the 1st of November now.
Go.
Godless
On an idolatrous planet
a gold vessel waits to be filled with something better than itself.
Throngs love themselves.
A yellow leaf on a lonely planet
crunches beneath a confused boot.
Love
What if love is a yellow gel pen?
Bright, beautiful, illegible?
And if you have left your vision in someone else’s well,
what then?
Cinderella
Seasons of castles, cathedrasl, fortresses
go by.
Pride with his transparent wings buzzes outside the window.
What if Cinderella was as awful as her step-sisters?
The mortar between the bricks says,
Don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Beneath the cathedral floor princely hands wring desperately
to extricate themselves from a promise.
Ghosts
Inside the house there are ghosts gnashing their teeth,
whispering into the baby monitor.
At the other end of the house I freeze
hear the voices amid crackles of static,
stop folding towels.
She is the final holdout,
but the bread has crossed over to our side.
Miniature Moon 