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
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.
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.
The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
sweet pink,
royal purple.
My terrible snow covers my table,
the bed.
Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,
the sound is muted.
I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn,
taken the wind for a weekend lover,
argued with the reeking river.
I live in a castle of mattresses
and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.
Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,
doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.
The houses cannot touch.
Yards stretch to reach property lines.
This is the land of a people who had a dream
of coasts and cities,
and stopped when they realized they’d already found better
Lost colonies.
Attacking cotton balls.
The water stretching over my year.
Serendipitous discovery of disease.
An island with hideous creatures of smoke.
Aggressive violins singing in a corner I can’t forget.
I have rotting songs in a heap behind the house.
Little mimes are jerking to life in the detritus.
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.
Miniature Moon 