(The celestial sobbing
of a year cut short.)
When the world ends,
we will all be high,
laughing at the telenovelas
we have lived.
The fire will clash with ice.
But where it all really
breaks down
is the anticipating
burning in the dumpster.
Like champagne
the old distrust bubbles
out from my upturned tumbler.
Now there is nothing
but trust.
(We all know how it ends.)
The lake was created
with pastels
and sometimes I smudge
God’s work a little
when I pass through.
In my little canoe
I row with only
a nebula for company.
The gestation time
for my poignant pointers
is seven days.
My pace swells.
On the shore,
so many men link arms
with so many women,
drapes and windows.
Ideas are born to separate.
The friendship between
nail and noose is
careful, refined.
Outside the pharmacy,
a pale and rain-soaked line.
What I know in my head
I do not know in my wrists
that hide a way of love.
The tree is held up by a cable
wrapped around Gabe’s hand
at the other end.
On the tree,
a sign nailed in
“Welcome.”
Childhood is a charlatan
I have eaten all the
red lollipops there are to lick,
and my face is permanently stained.
I am a constant victim of curiosity.
Free time flies away
on a paper airplane.
I left my wherewithal
in a cubby.
No one ever told me
just take three licks.
Take your licks now.
God filtered through rain,
six color promise.
The sun he forged
burning my toast from
the immunized difference
between us.
My promises are colorful too.
Purple promise to my husband,
to love the landscape of
his judgments.
Red promise to absorb his kisses,
squeeze mine out on his
body like a lotion.
Yellow promise of waiting
for him in the gaps.
Intricately,
the neighbor paints the windows
with the image of his bare chest,
feral abs,
face that cleans itself.
His wife will come through
the white front door
with a basket of
feline flowers.
Like lace
they will crisscross.
and I will close the blinds.
The ghost tries my
new furniture,
finds it comfortable,
sits inside me when I
refuse to get up and
make way.
I’ve not been inhabited
by myself in many days,
so this is refreshing.
But I itch.
He doesn’t quite fit.
Firm meadows
call me out.
Work is not my friend,
always one foot
ahead of my disease eaten ankle.
Tuesday will dissolve.
In the creamy morning light,
fat snow lounges on the mountaintop.
My new day has no confidence.
My shoes wait by the door,
made of bone china
And stained with my used blood.
Secondhand fire bounces
off the receding moon.
Numbers await me,
my house and my mind
Filled with them.
Math cuts me.
The subtraction demanded
of me is too much.
I shove my feet in my shoes.
Outside the morning is frosting
on my world.
I have nothing but
the robbery of my body.
Somewhere in the identified town,
an old friend who does not tire out
lights the lamp.
It’s amazing what forms he takes
when he is alone.
Indivisible shape of personal election
and sweltering affiliation.
Loyalty of nationality,
shown by unlimited birth.
Women and infants like
oil and flame.
Surrounded by the neighbors,
He lives the life he has been given,
cleaning the cleanest of plants.
