The sweet blue west calls me.
A vision of endless land is seared into my eyes.
Why take this seasick sailor
and set her in the lovelorn Prairie
where emptiness is everything
and loneliness is nothing,
only to drop her from a thunderous cloud
in a crowded coastal city
to drown?
Death?
I do not care for him.
He is stubborn.
I combine my breaths at night.
See Death dance like a dandy with his lover,
a sea gray prostitute
with a song caught in her throat.
This clock is orange and extravagant
like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon
and I have a child.
In a clock,
wild excess is forgiven.
The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,
spends forever buying contraband at every border.
My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.
Seasons of saffron,
of fairness.
Faucets of Holy water,
of an audience that never claps.
Beauty is never exotic,
Growing everywhere.
The plague is in my closet.
My shoes are conjurers,
My eyes lakes we and your father
went fishing in.
You caught tap shoes.
He caught concurrence wriggling like a worm.
I caught the cable of an elevator
and slid down into myself.
There are no lights down here.
The sea under my hair is hungry.
Dive in.
I’m watching from the bottom.
Slim sunsets sink slowly.
I am a lemon. I am a thorn.
I hurl.
Water finds me grotesque.
Sometimes I sit under hospital beds and eat away at lives
like bitter battery acid.
Was it because I loved you that I siphoned your contentment
or because I have a funnel where my heart should be?
Cacti calculate incalculable records of sand.
You hold my hand.
The rocks wear red,
the nation of vegetation wears tan
like the leather journal I write all my mud sonnets in.
If you are not careful I will cook for you.
Do you quiver at the thought of me,
fire in one hand sacrifice in the other,
learning to sew?
Philanthropic glass birds wheel overhead.
I am a litany of byproducts.
My ocean is killing me,
Clipping onto me with Mary blue claws and
pulling a piece off at a time.
Suggest yarn,
rope,
a tale of few cities.
Something to tie and bind me,
amoeba shaped and expunged.
You are my cilia,
take me where the crystalline birds nest.
In the maturescence of time,
the callous heavens will descend
and coat everything in pearls.
The sea will become useless,
the blood on your bed bathetic.
Who will we be without our sins,
washed white as winter?
Lavish
Unstable
The silver seesaw
Levitates in the wind.
If a blackbird landed in the center,
I would cry.
Everywhere splatters of preening self,
orange and yellow,
covered in gorgeous tears.
Paste my back together.
Donate your time.
Donate my spine.
I play with Saturday night sound.
I can’t bite my nails.
They are embedded somewhere else.
In my peccancy,
I frequently forget
the great video camera in the opaline sky.
Miniature Moon 