Seaweed, moss, flowing in the undercurrent.
Water seeps under
My door.
Careful,
I have bled for this thought.
Triangular thought in taupe.
Taupe does not belong me,
An alien that invaded my ear.
Oh the extraterrestrial voices I hear.
The current pulls me out the door into the creek,
Leaving my husk behind.
The taupe triangular alien adrift
In my rust scented blood cells.
Glasses left alone
on an old barbed wire fence.
The trees have eyes.
Loving hands grope the twilight –
Morphing.
Nails,
meet hammer.
The angels are out with their shotguns.
The air tears.
Sightless,
crows measure the circumference
of a trapped terror.
A diamond rose blooms.
Bring your interesting mug to me.
I’ll kiss it pretty.
In the fields,
wealth,
so tepid and money colored.
The robin has no place to land,
though there are worms everywhere.
Lemony sun
with long hair smothering the Earth.
Night in her silken pelerine
strolls sipping absinthe.
She wanders from me but is not lost.
Under the sun’s tresses
I trespass.
Champagne rain.
Ice sculpture of God.
Lights out.
Melt blasphemy quickly.
The silver triangle attracts children
for miles around,
which draws the velvet mothers.
In blackness,
Equality.
Onyx liberation.
The malleable mallards,
drunk on the rain,
roll and tip in a rad pond.
Bubble spangled air.
Fizz.
Finality.
Red robed apparition appropriating my soul,
an orange citrus scented sequined sphere,
raising me heavenward.
I am heavy,
He does not drop me.
Scarlet slipknot,
A lace bracelet on a wrist
crisscrossed with tracks.
Euphoria.
The floor creaking
under the creek in the hallway.
My sister of smoke and silence is swimming.
I am shattering my mirror,
performing surgery with
The fractured image-
image of eye roving over my man,
a leg stretching exhausted.
To remove the thought
I must cut deeply.
Mirror glass is such a rough tool.
I see and my seeing is reflected
back to me.
Packages from my mother are shipment brown
and sing Handel’s Messiah.
A spiral telephone cord connects us,
and when I need to face West for any reason
it pulls my mother toward her front door.
I remember being a child and playing telephone with two cups and a string.
That was the first time an angel was on the other end of the line.
In the bathroom mirror my eyes are dials.
A thrill purist.
Only the fastest falls.
The meteoric rises.
In the awesome hydrangeas,
I am taking my injection of cool collectivism.
I am so sick with speed and simpering.
In my silly string garden,
I play with the dead.
Among the maples,
Adam hunts Eve,
wants his rib back.
Incalculable chemicals take their daily calcium,
Get stronger and stronger on blood broth,
and the fields sleep.
The battle is tomorrow.
I run my fingers through feathered grass and
think,
How many hordes would maim and dismember
to choose what I do with my sculpture of bone?
The new war is personalized,
minute,
cerebral.
The chemicals leave trails
vociferous and victorious.
Miniature Moon 