Are you nipping the fire as you did me?

How do you feel now that your message is miniscule

particulate floating in my lungs?

You were one long tooth phrase

they shouldn’t have written out loud.

Oh scrumptious cash!

How I longed for you when your

green paint floated above my fingers,

And now that I have a part of you,

Swaddled like a prized baby,

I long to share you

with a needy, needful world.

There’s a leak in my monstrous island,

the fossils falling out the bottom into a superlative sea.

I cannot patch it with barbed wire and fire,

that’s all I have.

I am an extremist.

I am the mountain.

I am the valley.

I am the lava that flows like a spring to the sea.

Soon, Darling, we will sink to the bottom,

forever cold and flat.

What if tomorrow,

a day that hides in my petticoat,

there is no silver chalice?

Tomorrow the crowds are dry,

whirring like so much dust.

Please take your watering can, tip it over,

spill out the poems.

Poems are wet.

Drip a little onto your hands,

quench the angry hordes with

yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Nourishing blue planets undulate in the breeze –

sweet, fluffy flavored,

The nectar refreshes like Cola.

By the brook,

an indigo shadow bird hunts for fearless fish.

I relate to the fish.

Lamplight flickers,

teasing the shadows.

The clock chimes 25 times underneath the bed.

Dust hunts my memories.

My shoes abuse me.

I am writing my dissertation on dessert,

in song.

Silly stillborn idea!

Though you died years ago

I still see you marching to town,

a paint roller in one hand and dynamite in the other.

My my smell that minute!

Would you like a jar of my lightning preserves?

Fruit punch flavor!

In town the frost freezes the hollers

of the conceptual townspeople.

Shredded shards of shattered wishes strewn everywhere.

The pond is always in my horizon,

solitude fishing on the bank.

I will Stitch my want together again.

Let my hands go where my heart wants.

For too long my essence has been bottled.

The evening is blue with my husband,

and I snuggle moisturized and my oaken bed.

Down the cool hall,

my daughter drowses and dreams in a bed of leaves.

She rolls.

It crackles.

My smile gets 10 spacious degrees warmer.

My hair beams,

my feet curl,

scrolls of hieroglyphic years.