My needs and desires grow
Like kudzu on you
Taking them from me is not stealing,
A label that disposes of bloodletting
To quiet its memories of such a beautiful heart.
You better not see it.
Nice need.
Silent seed.
Category: poetry
Tears
My tears flowed.
As if the stones had struck every one of them,
They were tearful themselves.
Newspaper
Dark with coal mines and invisible cradles
I’m not enlightening.
I am not black.
here stands the misunderstanding of all His glory.
Newspaper; a decade’s worth of spandex.
Darkness circulates through the air
As a free agent in chaos.
I skip home above the ravine,
Watching the spectators struggle in the gorge.
Mitochondria
I have a huge mitochondria
Sitting on my desk.
It is not a model,
Just overgrown.
It likes chocolate bars.
My students,
Alive,
Watch the mitochondria
Squeeze and wriggle on the table.
I rub off my dead skin,
Ease it into the alien world
Of permanent energy,
And watch the lights dim.
Stalemate
Sick blue saxophones see the thermal inferno.
He has said “I will never lose the true facts.”
She has said, “I will never abandon my corners ”
Music drifts to hell.
Where will they go in the silence that follows?
Claws and Colors
Shivering yelps race to the edge of audible.
There are always claws on our edges,
Steering us away from the yelling
The time spent idling in swimming pools judging extra colors
And into a song on repeat.
Even the acrobats and ballerinas will die in the end.
It was my last gasp
That fluttered across the wind.
Moon and Stars
Stars do not stoop before moons,
Only before an invisible God. Ringing the multiverse with fire.
Moons are delicate,
Sound like flutes as they spin.
Moons are sleepy debutantes
Over each devouring body.
Stars, arrogant,
Give each other more space
Than is wise.
Butter
Guiltless and capable,
The butter knife lounging on the counter.
Butter is soft and weak,
And hates her,
Uet through her dulling days
She never forgets butter.
Big Eye
Makeshift trees
Conceal the emptiness of space.
I am removed from nature’s skin
As crust from an eye.
Too often I have peered
Over my back fence for
A better view
No one should see that much
We are startled giants
With weak hearts
Space rolls over its
Grassy base
There is no room for
A thing that watches
Yet a big eye cleans
The back of the world
With lashes
They Lie
the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie
that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-
tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday
There is no compassion
in industry.
you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere
Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.
Miniature Moon 