Category: poetry

Lover

The soft lassitude

of a day parked by the fire,

like a car primed for a

make out session between

secret sex singers.

A leg soft and gently

dimpled,

an arm resting on the

pillow.

Outside,

a sea of hats I wear

to greet the constraints

of time and truth.

Fingers graze my nipples,

a hand cups my belly.

I have harvested the

secrets planted in my

garden long ago,

and they sit in a vase

drinking heavily from

their water.

She is my mirror,

but softer and more

at home with placid

calm.

The glass fell away from us,

and now we interlace in

front of a fire cooler than us.

Flora

Verdant veracity of the

vertebrate lawn rumbling

in an amalgamation of tongues

about the dangers of sunglasses.

In the house I drink my sunscreen.

The fly watches from

his trap embittered.

I’ll move through death

like a wind in my veil.

He’ll stay still and desiccate.

The lawn has done the

back-breaking work of drawing

meaning from dirt.

I can’t see the arms through

all the wisps of greenery,

but something is being

grasped preciously,

the edge of the sidewalk,

and the personhood of the

greenery is undoubtable.

Urban Mysticism

Urban mysticism,

a religion of glass.

I see myself in the mirror,

and behind my image the

team watches.

I have stolen air that was not mine,

evidence stored in my metallic

blood strong enough to build a

steel city.

What electronic theology is this,

the images flashing in the cameras?

There are detailed views

of the selves,

the only blind spot at

the left hand.

Competing ideology,

steel towers with winding

staircases up the shaft.

At the top,

a thin and hopeless soil,

a contented yesterday,

a bumblebee bumbling.

Minerals

Men, minerals

fill my dialects.

Wearing orange,

drugs worldwide

sing their song.

Something about lemonade.

Young women of wisteria,

Iron,

Zinc.

Xylem and phloem on two sides

Of the same love

thrown off

in autumn.

My body has lost something.

Bones are in my tongue of power

over the earth.

Specific Species of Special Considerations

My sentences are sprinkled

with snowy asterisks.

So many cold specific species

of special considerations.

Compounding the temerity of

this informational vacation

through the paradise of lingua franca

*commonality hell*

A virga, purple and inconsistent.

My tongue,

dry,

cracking,

goes on.

In the meadow between my

thoughts and their definitions

snowstorm as crepuscular ballet.

Tinfoil Moon

My tinfoil moon is so cheap

and glitters prolifically,

unlike the gold sun jailed

in the center of the solar system,

mined to death for its light,

wasted resource above the

bickering buildings with their

fluorescent innards.

Perhaps my dearest half will tear just the

littlest piece of my moon

to fashion me a fashionable ring.

No one loves the crinkled moon as I do,

The glitz and glam of being second best.

Aurora

I work to the tune of your aurora.

The floor wears away imperceptibly

as a woman whose dreams have

been munched by the wolf in her words.

The tundra of my inexperience thaws.

On the know-it-all breeze,

laughter that grips my heart

like a hand.

When the pollen heard you weep,

you were sainted by the grass.

Your greens, your purples.

Your lilting light that

whips through my space

like remorse.

Your song is dangerous,

damaging.

January

In the January flame everything

curls to the core to cure the cold.

The drool from your chin gleams

like seraphim.

When you became a hunting dog

in an incomparable cage,

I rose above the earth

like a nuclear cloud.

You’ve been hungry for so long,

my flowers asleep in their

bulbs dream of you as soil,

as a rain of blood.

Gnaw the chain link

and drop yourself as a wind

into the cold.

January burns like a wild

thing on the run.

Cooking

In the kitchen,

electric suns and a scorched

rain roiling up from the metal

crust like the flood Noah would

not have survived.

Hungry, I still turn away

from the last few seconds

of deserved and unearned life.

My life lays over me like a bib.

What bullets does it block

from my breasts?

Through the window,

filthy afternoon trudges in

from the rails like a hobo.

Every table in the dining room

is set to the music of

scoundrels naming their children.

From the kitchen,

streaming remnants of

finish lines.