My subconscious is a group project with many subcommittees.
Hopefully there are people much smarter than me
Making some of these decisions.
As it stands,
I have my hand in an oil can
While building a house from matches.
At night I fear silence so I whisper my anthems to God,
I spend the day trying to be a kite-
And then burning every kite in a 10 mile radius because I’m mad I failed.
The wind in the conifers beckons,
Yet the subcommittees have all voted no,
And I cry in my yard
and don’t understand why I do
A highway with a necklace of beer glass.
I too am hemmed in by glass,
By broken mirrors and dashed bottles of wine and my second sight glasses a finished suicide.
Trucks come so bright,
And taxi drivers look with pity
As I walk miles in the snow without gloves,
Trying to get my new space heater home and turned on.
Then a man quietly pulls up next to me
And offers a ride.
His taxi is a minivan and I see his meter up front.
I told him thank you, but I have no money.
He said he wanted to help. No charge.
That is what we mean when we say love your neighbor.
In the morning there was green,
A cool, whispering green infecting the spruce and air.
Within the covetous morning
They harbor the dark –
The spruce and air in collaboration with
More green than I can understand.
My sight is green like the stem of a flower
Used to promote something more interesting.
Green is what I see alone in the canals
That swerve my needs.
Yet I dislike al l but the brightest, loudest of greens
Because they remind me of my perfect noon.
My needs and desires grow
Like kudzu on you
Taking them from me is not stealing,
A label that disposes of bloodletting
To quiet its memories of such a beautiful heart.
You better not see it.
The forest clutches
while lightning loses her identity.
We hold onto bad things
and are leveled like
In the forest,
trees in pain –
the communication between
leaf and air severed.
When the grasses and branches
the forest repents.
And then the falling
of fallen water.
On the gold prairie,
with the dew.
Grass saws air
clean enough for surgery.
Somewhere below the graves,
a sea of oil lapping against earth.
What will happen
when the men with
long claws and downward hunger
stumble on this peculiar paradise?
Dark blue world with
a turquoise brooch,
lend me cerulean serenity,
In a grunge sweat I awake
to my graying life,
see my watery windows blink,
your image like an oil painting,
then a satisfied sea,
next a poison frog.
Each blink my view of you morphs,
though your honorable navy
shades swear you have never changed.
You glide beyond the reach
of my clock,
ticking away as it tends
to do while the universe is unreachable.
In the vastness of your blue,
in your sapphire essence,
chewy caramel change is king.