The butterscotch center,
That rippled source of math,
Draws me in.
Analytical paintings of crime and punishment
Line the walls.
This old house feels it when I stroke
The lace curtains like a jealous lover.
In the storm cellar,.
Cider and a rift in space time.
Day: November 14, 2024
Be Real With Me
Your open face is a battleground. Behind your eyes, artillery. Every champagne glass will shatter the night you turn into a fish, and I will lap the champagne off the floor with my tongue like a kitten. Be real with me. The cold sheen of your lips tells me when you lie.
Zeitgeist
The zeitgeist is entertaining, is shredded, is mad. My mercurial hair flies in the breeze of a thousand white fragrances. This age has a stone and a sling shot. This age is not David, but Goliath. God will overcome this blood crusted century like a disease, sewing heaven from His hands like wildflower seed.
Prose Poem – Us
Her wet voice is the breeze among the lilacs. Her face turned upward like a graph, displaying shiny information encoded in cotton skin. My body is a bridge between two worlds. I dream of the sweet number tattooed on the past.
Getting Ready for the End
Firstly, fashion flits over my face like flickering fire.
Then comes the 6 pound, 12.5 oz scream.
Then the blackness of hungry water.
Down deep below diamonds where water is a dream state
Like Florida glittered with snow,
My smile stretches to accommodate the black pressure
Of shadows squeezed to a paste.
Friendly, the robot makes conversation with me
While he robs me of my fingers.
If the scream should rush back into me, I would die.
My language slips across the grass
In only a slip,
Her nakedness plain to all the angels.
At my vanity,
Choosing a face to wear,
I remember that time on the backporch
When you showed me you loved me.
Miniature Moon 