Somber ideas finger my mind.
I always overcome them.
My mind is the zenith of razors,
My hair is the desire to die all of us want.
Category: poetry
Intrusive Thoughts
Glittering shrapnel claws deep in my mind,
embedding vicious thoughts caught in my hands
like a virus,
like a child leaping into my arms,
like a newspaper thrown against my door by a brat.
Why can’t I expel the mental graft and gristly slander
that permeates myself?
Does gold feel worthless when desperate divorcees toss
it in the sea
to forget?
To remember rage?
Created for Sundays
Uncompromising clocks are miserly with me.
Mondays are not miserable at all.
Monday is a week in infancy,
Filled with promise.
By Saturday there is so much regret.
I am chest deep in the wet of Wednesday,
My breath black smog.
The afternoon is another language.
I do not speak.
I was sewn for Sundays.
Art History
Quiet art history is just as dazzling as fireworks,
the artist’s eyes fluttering open in the morning an explosion of a bomb.
See the veracity of the paintbrush,
The verifiable anguish in colors prone to roam the white space,
the place where luck dies.
What arguments have painters had with invalid ideas,
high on their laudanum and making no sense to anyone but
the artist, a doctor for chartreuse concepts that long to be a lively lime.
What canonical cloudscapes inspired the Sistine chapel?
What childish memory provoked David?
A Love Like October
Singing into the bush
a lilac on a lark.
A love like October,
orange and fast.
The lilac has a heated language,
a boiling pattern of speech.
Frost is mute,
Abused,
Sinful.
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
needing shelter.
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.
Calm Before the Storm
The eleventh sky watches me.
Clouds are my enemy.
Hunger worms between my teeth.
My face is not finished with you.
Beyond the town the boys
cultivate storms.
World of Color
A world of color is rich,
is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.
What I need is a glass of hot pink,
an elixir of glowing purple,
a tincture of pool blue,
languid and electric.
My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale
on my bedside table
while a documentary on contemporary
art stabs me in shades of black and white,
Sound muted.
Clamor Clatter Calamity
Clamor clatter calamity
a huge purple spill
generous to an idea getting drunk in the corner.
I am an absence of air.
Paris writes me telling me not to come.
Many things have fallen
into the gaping O of love.
My sick senses stretch like a violin note over
a ghostly concert hall.
Halls are caverns.
I have a hall inside my city
And he waits there.
He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,
I the suction of quicksand.
To Mother Mary
This is my Imperfect hour,
Negative ideas multiply with negative space.
My crotch is steam.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember that I am a child in this world,
Trafficking in pain.
Am I your neighbor?
Will you scorn me?
Madonna and Child (Me to Mary)
This is not my finest hour,
Thoughts encrusted with sin
Crotch raging and wet.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember I am a child in this vast ageless world,
Writhing in ecstatic agony.
What did you feel on your wedding night,
When you realized the black terror of earning your
Scandalized neighbors?
Miniature Moon 