I write to her in autumn leaves.
“You left something in the alphabet. ”
I am busy at my roots.
I’m not my good, unclean self –
the sun’s desire,
by chance.
Shadow autumnal mysteries with me.
The leaves will make me.
Category: poetry
Wintry Culture
At the sea level a polished ice.
Under it,
two polite humanoids that cannot pass,
Their painful courtesy increasing
against the cold crusted water.
I have the urge to cry.
I have for years.
The storm swirls deeply,
Blurring boundaries between
The dead and the sea.
The winter will sail
beyond borders and shore,
an elegant hole in the warm web of living.
For now,
nude humanoids,
Scratching at the well-kept surface
Of a national ice.
Unfamiliar Color Pink
The tongue over the unfamiliar color pink.
Under the indulgent skin,
cunning.
Ravenous
The blister is open where the money is.
Lie down,
Removed from the vicissitude of skin.
The pit of mercy,
His own money,
Leaves her hungry.
A proud pit, a deep pit.
The development of such objects
Unbearable as it is unacceptable
He wanted his place,
His needs eternal,
And so he did something dark.
Equalizer
In the budgetary bay,
the crabs are unaccounted for.
I am an oyster tending my pearl
with irritation and resentment.
Ripples have a mob mentality.
On the boastful shore,
a rabid fox is proud of his dry air.
Rain is the equalizer.
Under My Curves
You will end up under my curves.
Your lips will manifest as stamps on my skin,
Your authority the book I read all day.
You peck at my boundaries,
mysterious weapon
of want and need,
Ascending from sin
To pure release.
Daughterhood
The pure cleanliness of innocence,
Or the unclean marketplace desires?
To be friendly
or experienced?
Our sons come with the scope of power,
With the confidence of a multitude
fed on the milk of love
and grown in crocheted glimmer.
They will learn from a trick candle
How to live.
Our daughters?
They come with blood,
to give birth to thorns.
Untitled 69
Among the piqued daffodils
my body of silk.
Nothing has touched me
but a phantom with a ribbon.
The friction of lace on my
lowest, basest secret.
The clouds are pearlesque,
my skin a pearl casing I wear
because elegance is getting
cheap as talk.
Born from my animal mind,
her breath cascades
over my breasts.
Her hands peel the lace sweetly,
sweaty.
Execution
I remember your letter of gun metal,
How I read it between my ribs
Before I could stand to see it.
I was executed for the fifth time that day,
Convulsing in a pool of my own heart music,
Staccato on the antiseptic floor.
Control is between your thumbs.
Make your skin detectable.
Thank you.
One day it will be as a mirror.
If you are writing again,
use the electrical font.
Go North
A woman of gold
takes the train to the north
and sleeps in cold cars.
What is her business?
Star products.
People live in this fire.
Speak in writing,
alien resident
content.
*
Take your unwise legs
and go northward to the country
to break.
Miniature Moon 