First, throw up the lights. Now you can move. Track down a sparrow for hire. Do you know how to handle a problem with a cape? Strap the house to the humane society. No one stands you up or puts you down. No 50 dollar donation and a signed form to give you any mercy. Go beg. Get that sparrow.
Why do knives chip?
Sparrow plead with them for my years still locked in the morning vault.
Work in progress.
Rolling out of a soul, I squish my teeth against the wall. Fidelity is a good example of how the internet has changed tomorrow. Loyal to my childhood, I spark some sort of emotional issue. My life tethered to a new world.
Seashore of officials. Miami has been a bad choice. Winter writers flutter like they were born to make their children feel so strange. The law has changed since I was a reptilian woman. I have laid my eggs in front of my hourglass. Children – they slide into chambers, sew themselves suits. Why comb a bald beach of boiling beer?
My sheath is made of leather.
I am a woman.
I am a knife.
Tonight I will dine
on an industrial
Dynasty,
eating in the workspace
of men –
Eating men.
Iron rising from my pulse
To the air
I see my doppelganger –
The pregnant cat
Luring the mouse.
This is part of my project to write poems that pair with colors and textures, or the other way around.
When the blood covered
the stones,
3 was created
It was then
That the staple guns
Came out
1 was a motion – imperceptible
2 was an equation –
the question and the answer.
3 looked like a rain puddle.
3 was made of metal.
With a blowtorch,
The creation of 4 as a
fine piece of art
The whole is less than
The sum of its parts
Permanent subtraction,
Each a negative
Sucking from her own math
Under the bitter heat
This metal does not
Waver.
I am the cloak of winter
shed too soon in the meadow
where naked spring is
penetrated by thawing snow.
Unneeded,
I whip around in the wind.
When your home is a time,
leaving is a dangerous,
ferocious thing.
My motives caravan
through a red, peerless desert.
Water travels just ahead
slightly faster than either I
or my mirror glass needs
can go.
Out here,
straws and dictionaries
present serious problems.
As though it were dead skin
scraped from the devil’s heel
by a pumice stone,
my purest motive blows
around the others.
If I flew my determinations
like kites,
attached to my stringy nerves,
could they rise to Heaven
and beg for a cloud?
Found poetry on my phone.
Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.
Omens are not good for me to get to see them again and again. Women writers and their bodies are wrong to say no. Insufficient information about myself is a very small community of the world. Skin needs a break. Feet of Christ are the hours of sleep. Originally published by Beard magazine and a half century fox, the history of women who have lust issues is on the rise.
There is so much to parse here -women and their privacy. Women and their needs. Christ as respite from the demands the world makes.
Flow of information from the interface is separated from the family room for awhile in the morning. The Male was also Marie Antoinette and her husband abuses her husband. The year is still coated in a long distance.
Miniature Moon 