Tall meagerness
looms above my cold day.
Greatly desired ghosts
refuse to descend from the trees.
While vegetables sleep in
the earth,
hunger tugs at them gently
trying to lead them to birth.
I feel empathy.
So little to see.
So little to say.
The height of my soul
An inch above sea level.
Above me,
a lack.
Kindred cartwheels
spread like a virus
from child to child.
The cotton candy machine
spins discarded hair
like it was cotton.
The children are always awed
by the taste
of old age on their tongues.
Behind the tent,
parents time stamp
the infants
and tattoo names on each other.
Little rollercoasters
struggle for an
adolescent speed.
Childhood is a charlatan
I have eaten all the
red lollipops there are to lick,
and my face is permanently stained.
I am a constant victim of curiosity.
Free time flies away
on a paper airplane.
I left my wherewithal
in a cubby.
No one ever told me
just take three licks.
Take your licks now.
God filtered through rain,
six color promise.
The sun he forged
burning my toast from
the immunized difference
between us.
My promises are colorful too.
Purple promise to my husband,
to love the landscape of
his judgments.
Red promise to absorb his kisses,
squeeze mine out on his
body like a lotion.
Yellow promise of waiting
for him in the gaps.
Intricately,
the neighbor paints the windows
with the image of his bare chest,
feral abs,
face that cleans itself.
His wife will come through
the white front door
with a basket of
feline flowers.
Like lace
they will crisscross.
and I will close the blinds.
The tree wears a brace.
Summer is only half southern.
Among the roses
atoms splitting.
I reach through torn air.
Past it –
a gummy planet.
My life will live on
without me.
Hair and schedules
are only shells.
Nothing stands well
against the climate
of persnickety evil.
The tree’s chi sinks into
its roots.
The roses,
meanwhile,
fire their hopeful signals
at random.
The ghost tries my
new furniture,
finds it comfortable,
sits inside me when I
refuse to get up and
make way.
I’ve not been inhabited
by myself in many days,
so this is refreshing.
But I itch.
He doesn’t quite fit.
The last of the rain
hides under the chipped bench.
In a burrow ten feet away,
Summer and her bulimic brood.
Children stare at their faces in puddles,
faces framed by the
rainbow slick of motor oil
in the water.
What hallucinogenic heat
pushes a woman to the docks,
makes her surrender in
the family boat named
SS Hypatia?
Firm meadows
call me out.
Work is not my friend,
always one foot
ahead of my disease eaten ankle.
Tuesday will dissolve.
Powerful palling
cannot cut the concrete.
A young girl filing her
fingernails will tear it
to shreds.
Life is beauty
too high
and devouring everything.
What machinery can’t do,
a Valentine doily and
a lollipop can.
Girls grow in to women,
request houses of firm foundation,
wear fake nails.
Miniature Moon 