I have been outsonneted by a suction cup,
Clinging to my window like a starfish to the sea.
Lately my similes get away from me,
Dogs always unearthing hideous bones in
My backyard.
The curious climate of my moist mind
Is most conducive to marigolds, azaleas,
The pancreas.
My face is all sugar,
My tongue a cola.
See the stained glass the suction cup holds?
Memorabilia from an unremembered saint.
So many shades of blue,
No Blue
Circumference Blue
Film Strip Friday Blue.
I wore a flimsy film strip to the Blue Ball.
Cobalt courted me.
Yellow felt alienated.
Yellow did not go.
Green was the doorman.
My friendship with Sky and Navy and aquamarine
Has taught me how to talk with my eyes.
Nothing is louder than blue eyes,
Staring at me from the corner with the
Blossoming wallflowers,
Saying,
Dance with me.
Peace follows my soul –
Peace to hunters,
To prey,
To pray.
You are clear as water,
Eating azure threads of infinity .
Which flowers are nursing men along the river?
You do not know the catastrophe you will bring,
A spring thaw drowning everything under daylight .
The silence crouches behind my personality,
Stalking it.
Silence is a ghoulish hunter,
Seeking to drink the stark clarity of my water
And eat the bright blue impulses of my
Ever wakeful mind.
What stupid flowers grow by the river,
Not knowing a flood is coming to submerge them
In a chocolate brown night.
But if they knew,
What would the difference be?
I slow down,
Cover my ears.
Canisters of cold line my pantry shelves.
I nourish my soul with frigid ozone,
My stomach boiling and desperate for relief.
Why this internal inferno?
Can I learn to be a tepid meadow of placid terrain?
The floor is a guess,
is clear like water.
It is raining June in my hair.
My clothes are brimming with butterflies.
I am a sour after note to their beauty.
I was born to rise
to shatter sky.
Instead a jealous math
embalming me
Fills me with mud.
Enormous.
Silent.
Private.
My face is full of wonder.
My eyes do not have any fun.
Without the sky we can get power lines?
I play to win.
I lose again and again.
Touch me to notice messages buried in my skin.
Cruddy smells flake off the house and I know I shouldn’t be here.
No one has in faithless year after faithless year.
Knock it off.
I see you filching my backup plans from my purse.
God I wear blue well.
My soul is transparent like the cleanest lake.
I am without my numbers and shapes,
sewn from cotton fields.
I’m a doll you can love, hate, dissipate
Wrap me in rain,
give me cool comfort like the
swirling of air from a fan over my legs
at bedtime so noxious and sanctimonious.
What strange aliens wait in the field behind the house,
gaudy in their multitudinous space ships?
Give me sweet succor and lay me down
in the pumpkin patch.
Let me grow vines to root me in place.
There is no sense in running.
And when the aliens come,
let their teeth already be sharpened,
their hands quick.
Miniature Moon 