She is a wind rippling through
a field of water,
the flowers gasping to stay above the plastic surface.
The world can blow away like a wish.
She is a wish of piano fingers
and leathery song.
The touch of her mind on the water
designs waves that don’t care who they drown.
He is an island,
crunched and crumbling.
Seven sisters treat the water to something
Red
New
Foul.
Divine qualities.
Sparkling waters.
I thirst for sour songs that make me salivate.
Born to rise,
I was never mild,
a lava rolling over lives like a yawning lover in bed,
first one side than the other.
In the end I wasn’t a rock or a cliff.
I was mud.
Tableau of Realism
Her barely tended fire
The furniture in gold raiment
Windows yawning
Into the gaping hole of night
Scourged by street lamps
Eyes shut
The wood veneer everywhere peeling
Him burning alive bellowing
Ultraviolet mafia
exacting private taxes on the air.
Oxygen is an independent element.
Yet shrieks when hydrogen is rended from it.
Hi.
I am a neutron.
Hi.
I am an imaginary number.
Hi.
I am dark matter.
Light blows this way
then that,
a cheap exotic dancer.
Contortionist.
Extortionist.
And always the ultraviolet mafia
is skimming some off the top.
Black pink
Space in a coma.
Sugar up and down.
Sour Sundays stay out of sight.
We are not as rich as we think we are.
Yet I have an untried umbrella,
a love of picket fences,
and black pink.
In the room with the low light
and the high shadows
she says hello to her grandmother,
her grandmother’s sin,
and can’t see Heaven for all the Earth that lies ahead
on her head.
The machinations of weeds often go unnoticed
but I can feel the dandelion’s dark intent.
Inside my computer are vices I can’t explain
and virtues I won’t.
What battles for more are fought silently
in a world of less and less?
I was born in a gold mine.
Gold is a poison.
like fish we die far away from home
in houses that will immediately be given to someone else
On an idolatrous planet
a gold vessel waits to be filled with something better than itself.
Throngs love themselves.
A yellow leaf on a lonely planet
crunches beneath a confused boot.
Seasons of castles, cathedrasl, fortresses
go by.
Pride with his transparent wings buzzes outside the window.
What if Cinderella was as awful as her step-sisters?
The mortar between the bricks says,
Don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Beneath the cathedral floor princely hands wring desperately
to extricate themselves from a promise.
My friendships are all pastel.
Neat
Trim.
Tidy.
If I do not hold them close by their mint fingers,
children in a meadow of death,
they will fly away.
Miniature Moon 