Pour wine.
Turn on.
My bar is full of acids,
scrambled house.
Chronic medicine comes from it.
Tear out my tears
Make unhealthy promises.
Category: poetry
Woman
On the bridge of her lips I consider crossing –
my hips a sailboat with no sails.
Behind me, daisies.
Beneath me, silk drenched with dream.
In the sweet musk of human frailty
I rollick like a ship to sea
when she gazes at me,
knife to meat,
erosion to beach.
Destruction never was so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched,
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.
Daylight Dancer
In my plush, pink experience,
roses are more exquisite
dancers than I,
and it takes courage like a billboard
to be a daylight dancer.
The stones are brutal past
under blackened pressure.
Diamonds are never what they seem,
strings of ghosts like lights
around my neck.
What I write in white with
my digital digits –
a secret between my sin and the wind.
Man and Mice
A pointillist point pontificates
on how many men it takes to paint
a portrait of dramatic, carcinogenic war.
In my closet,
a gun,
in my mind,
strange acts of sex and survival.
Distinguishable by rudimentary colors,
indistinguishable by sedimentary feuds.
In my Freudian slip I attract fireflies,
corpulent river deltas,
expunged scales of seething grain.
Behind the house a man grows mice
to furnish pale places with plague.
He will slide home when the death
evaporates like hail in heat,
find himself in my wet caverns.
From Beginning to End
The days of man
exceed my breath.
In the major blood surgery,
The restoration of hunger.
Something waits by the garden.
In the Desert
The red design of undefined,
undeniable desert repels touch.
The curvature of the dunes
the body of a woman rewriting
an unslakable history.
Walk five miles.
Walk ten.
Water is a cross you will never bear.
In the bare heat I shiver,
my nakedness known to the sun,
x-raying my barren dress.
Burning a Better World
I’m burning a better world,
the ash of philosophy floating
into the negligent sunset.
Pour the wine.
Light the joint.
My bathtub is filled with acid,
house scrumptious.
What ageless tree sprouts from
the tutelage of my tears,
making unwholesome promises
to the old and dry?
Inside
Taupe travel traipsing over
someone else’s days,
bypassing my breath.
In the heady blood of surgery,
The resurgence of hunger.
The twirls of terrain beyond
the tips of my last resort skin
eddy with earthy puns –
something about guarding a garden.
No woman goes beyond the
rough hewn fence,
the fossils beyond still snaggle
jawed and just.
My Knit Mind
The seams of my knit mind are rupturing,
the contents in the sack
purple and insidious.
My sight hangs from a tree.
My tongue is sacred and violated.
The fields that lie behind me
Creep ever closer. The
butterflies sharpen their fangs.
Guide the Leopard Home
With rainbow ease I
sew my image on the mirror.
I have not blinked in days,
and now I see through
clouds to the dancing dead
shimmering in copper.
When I was born
(between songs)
my self was already old
and imprinted in glass.
When my face begins to crack
the glass will implode.
My self was born some time
between yesterday and
happily never after.
I need mirrors to make me remember
the things I once had memorized,
the monotheistic candle wicks
I must light,
To guide the leopard home
through the silo of night.
Self so stiff and soft,
stitched ad infinitum
in eternity.
Miniature Moon 