Welcome to the Life Center,
with sparkly resources to help you warm winter.
Are you a cartwheel?
A suspicious glance?
A still wind?
We can help you get back to work.
We offer many courses:
Earth Spinning
Bone Knitting
Light Painting –
and certifications in
Prebirth Fantasy,
Pain Sculpture
Freeway Fashion.
Visit us today in the Building of Roses,
at the corner of Air and Fire.
An envelope locked out of sight.
Buttercups giggling in the fields.
A pink fog rolls over the view.
It is all so dreamy.
Don’t bring a mirror here.
The children salivate when they see me,
a mother,
and dream of their own.
This is the exploratorium, she tells me.
The room is filled with grinning toys.
and the dolls go ignored because it is hard to play a mom
when you can’t reach yours.
Sweet fire chills in my bedroom
cool and
collecting dust.
The jealous window watches me,
tantalized by the molten heat.
Glass in love with fire,
melting in shame and desire.
It happens every day.
I stoke the fire.
Between panes the glass drools.
Ultraviolet mafia
exacting private taxes on the air.
Oxygen is an independent element.
Yet shrieks when hydrogen is rended from it.
Hi.
I am a neutron.
Hi.
I am an imaginary number.
Hi.
I am dark matter.
Light blows this way
then that,
a cheap exotic dancer.
Contortionist.
Extortionist.
And always the ultraviolet mafia
is skimming some off the top.
The machine is a tap dancer,
is silver,
has nightmares of rust.
She wears the moon on her face in a chalk.
She glows purple when she is near wisdom.
She glows purple among the trees.
The ribbon in her hair is forked,
tastes danger on the horizon.
And the robot who has been terrified to bathe for years
clicks his heels ever closer,
curious and cold,
while the ribbon hisses poison in her ear
Soft flesh
Pressable everywhere,
Pleasurable everywhere
To be teased and tickled everywhere.
Cornerless,
Sublime,
Full,
Generous,
Gentle,
Forbidden.
I am her and she is me,
sashaying in a voluminous dress,
100 percent feminine.
I fall in love with myself,
a monologue of fingers and sliding and heat.
His height like the distance between me and the universe
musculature spicy beneath my hands.
Take me over,
woman as Kingdom to command,
woman as Empire to be appeased with bread and circuses.
Chocolate syrup and heating pads are bread.
Deftly his fingers will do stunts beneath the canopy of my dress.
Lines and lights
antagonize
each other.
Outside I hear a running leaf pronounce someone man and wife,
then run away before the explosions.
The buildings groan in death throes
and money leaks out with termites,
a deformed child with the eyes of the devil
and the mania of a spurned woman.
A line zigzags through the parking lots
a light right on it
illuminating where it has been,
leaving a shadow where it will go.
The shadow sharpens his teeth.
She is Juning at a pale farmhouse table,
a gingham table cloth singing to the rhythm of the breeze.
Sunlight sinks sonorous into her dark,
scintillating hair.
Her breath,
her summer rainbow of colors,
her cornucopia of warm feelings –
joy, ecstasy, bliss,
and their pastel coated cousin contentment,
blend in a sweet yellow hum
hovering around her.
He looks at her.
this woman of glow and pure yellow sound
and he wonders how one can contain
heat,
happiness,
music.
Miniature Moon 