An envelope locked out of sight.
Buttercups giggling in the fields.
A pink fog rolls over the view.
It is all so dreamy.
Don’t bring a mirror here.
Tag: poem
Broke is Deadly
A liquid music froths up from my bubble bath
and I tell Industry to get out
and Perseverance to get in next.
These old gods are filthy.
I broke all the strings on my father’s guitar
and now I sell them separately.
Broken is beautiful.
Broke is deadly.
On the river my father sleeps in his kayak,
dreams of work.
Always he works.
Alternative Ghosts
Murmur to me.
Amuse me with your fondest memories
of things that never happened to you.
Mellow ghosts hover high in the heat
drugged on what they stole from my secret box.
Vulnerability
Honest textures undulate
in this valley of embarrassment.
Your face is plane.
Eyes unending.
Why did I loose my secrets on a world of cold mirth,
of casual scorn?
The Immeasurable Suffering of the Sun
The immeasurable suffering of the sun in summer-
to work and work
and nothing but the self is immolated.
I too am an ambitious failure,
unable to turn the tide,
washing my linens with tears.
I know what it is to be fire surrounded by emptiness
and ice.
Peace
frigid submarines slice the sea,
slit peace open like a package
but there is nothing inside
but a long wait for the tide to come in
My Love
I see my face in silver water
My voice was in the bottle you broke.
It dissolved in the vacuous air.
My love you skipped like a stone on the sea.
I see my face in the water silver
My voice broken bottle.
This dissolved air color.
My love to skip a stone over the sea.
I see my face in the water silver
My voice broken bottle.
It dissolved air color.
save my love for a rock on the beach.
Pieces of Me
The dust stalks me like a black cat.
Every bleating town I go to
a chunk of me falls off.
My breath smells of earthquake.
Drunk my eyes tremor.
On the trip home I will find where everyone left me,
see blocks of myself in ditches.
Micropoetry
Wino
The grape’s spirit is vengeful,
will wear red to my funeral
and hit on my husband.
The grape’s spirit
will liberate my fine linen
from my lines,
my signature from the language.
Miniature Moon 