Synthetic oceans tug at my private world,
The glorious ripping tides from two pink moons.
To ameliorate is pink.
What swims beside my boat,
Wheat colored, round toothed, bipedal –
That I cannot recognize as one of my own?

In the indispensable dark
A radio waits
Fuzzy with signal.
Can you hear my hunger in the static,
The sound of my teeth gnashing overlaid
With the crackling
Like music?

I wear a necklace of thirst.
My forehead is emblazoned with
The idea is in the umbilical cord.
My shoes light up.
I cannot walk without marching,
Dance without dreaming,
Scream without reading.
I carry a satchel of books.
The first one reads,
In the aftermath are bunnies and prose.
The second reads,
Math is Armageddon.
The third reads,
Armageddon was yesterday. The aftermath
Is bunnies and prose.

 

 

The dance is lost in translation.
My feet are visionaries,
The floor a diary poorly kept.
To the right,
A sprinkle of justice.
To the left a topographic map of indecency.
Give me all your semicolons.
My story is not finished.
Give me shoes of air.
I wish to dance in my own language.

The baby search engine crawls on my floor
Eating cheerios and spitting out good advice
He will never understand.
To remove a hate stain from cotton,
Whitewash in bleach.

How do I know the little search engine is male?
The way he references his own expertise.

 

Deaf electromagnetic angels
cobble shoes on my front porch,
My porch overgrown with frogs.
I will walk across the whispering world in these shoes,
My soul protected by the soles,
My salvation stored in my pinky toe –
The heart I stub so often it broke.