The Hth Symphony

The Hth Symphony
As dull as licking the window pane
Flavor of CPA licensure
Or funeral home director.

It works it’s waves through the folds
Of my wounded mind,
And I remember how
The snowflake flashed “help “ in Morse code
As it glistened to death in my warm hand.

Velvet transpires with Chantilly lace
To pluck Hth out of the air,
Twist it around and stretch it,
Bleeding pink dreams as it distorts beyond recognition.

What makes you the most qualified applicant
To modernize sound for the sensibilities of the dark?
If you gather courage from the mangroves bleeding orange juice,
You may be able to tolerate the Gth symphony.
If that is too tangy an endeavor for you,
It’s chutes not ladders for you,
For the rest of your

L
I
F
E

February – Or Limits.

The ghost of February
Rummages through my garage,
Unearthing thousands of decayed dreams.

February is ice blue
Is lonely
Is unhinged.
Climate Control
Battles with her every year.
But each year February dies
And her ghost
Is a pick pocket on the beach I grew up on.

When she comes to my home,
My pink dwelling by the sea,
She searches for her brother,
January.
I do not tell her
But I buried him
And selfish ambition
Under the Norfolk Pine.

One of my dreams is delicate,
Lacy,
Shy.
Her I named Aurora
For the lights I long to see
At the ends of the Earth.
She almost turns to dust in February’s
Damp hands.

February takes a shine to her and asks me,
“May I?”
I acquiesce.
She wipes away the frost
On her eyes,
And sachets out of my garage,
My little green dream chattering away at her.
May my tender little dream

Go where I cannot.