The narrator is mopping the floor with my tears,
Which for him fall like rain through a hole
In the roof.
What promise this day had,
Born at the height of the malleable moon.
Since favor and faith and fancy have
The narrator begins with an article
That will barely clothe me from the cold.
I have been outsonneted by a suction cup,
Clinging to my window like a starfish to the sea.
Lately my similes get away from me,
Dogs always unearthing hideous bones in
The curious climate of my moist mind
Is most conducive to marigolds, azaleas,
My face is all sugar,
My tongue a cola.
See the stained glass the suction cup holds?
Memorabilia from an unremembered saint.
So many shades of blue,
Film Strip Friday Blue.
I wore a flimsy film strip to the Blue Ball.
Cobalt courted me.
Yellow felt alienated.
Yellow did not go.
Green was the doorman.
My friendship with Sky and Navy and aquamarine
Has taught me how to talk with my eyes.
Nothing is louder than blue eyes,
Staring at me from the corner with the
Dance with me.
Peace follows my soul –
Peace to hunters,
You are clear as water,
Eating azure threads of infinity .
Which flowers are nursing men along the river?
You do not know the catastrophe you will bring,
A spring thaw drowning everything under daylight .
The silence crouches behind my personality,
Silence is a ghoulish hunter,
Seeking to drink the stark clarity of my water
And eat the bright blue impulses of my
Ever wakeful mind.
What stupid flowers grow by the river,
Not knowing a flood is coming to submerge them
In a chocolate brown night.
But if they knew,
What would the difference be?
I slow down,
Cover my ears.
This is my Imperfect hour,
Negative ideas multiply with negative space.
My crotch is steam.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember that I am a child in this world,
Trafficking in pain.
Am I your neighbor?
Will you scorn me?
This is not my finest hour,
Thoughts encrusted with sin
Crotch raging and wet.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember I am a child in this vast ageless world,
Writhing in ecstatic agony.
What did you feel on your wedding night,
When you realized the black terror of earning your
Canisters of cold line my pantry shelves.
I nourish my soul with frigid ozone,
My stomach boiling and desperate for relief.
Why this internal inferno?
Can I learn to be a tepid meadow of placid terrain?