The Scene

…waiting for a train

Rolling a die
On the brink
Of greatness

…on the tracks
Dust of the less fortunate

…across town
Someone waits for him
There are salty crimes
To be answered for

he slips into the sun

Dirty Poem with Christmas

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.

Predictive Text Poetry

I am using predictive text to write poems. I pick the word to start with, and then I choose 1 word from the 3 that are offered. Let’s see how that went.

The moon was so burnt out it was my favorite place to be. Corrosive bacteria can cause cancer or even three weeks of birth. Red light is always welcome in our churches. Feathered hair is silvered like a great idea and a great night.

Day and Night

The dawn makes much of me,

flooding as she does

over the delta of dark.

The cowardice of night,

the dryness on the dark,

amaze me like

the paranoia at the foot of

my bed,

gnawing his hands

and begging for bandages.

Dawn always grows up.

Noon holds me in

a vice grip,

and I yearn for my shadow

and his praise of me.

Slowly,

sun turns to chaos

and things separate.

Evening falls like linen

on my hair.

Holier,

I brave the coming dark,

already thirsty,

as the light flows

to her next season.

Daughter

Children mature

the way multitudes desire,

turning from proud stones

to sand.

The machines take turns

walking me.

I’ve been ill with

wicker baskets for weeks.

Between my legs,

unzipped zipper.

Epiphany window.

When I was pregnant,

I lived wretched

as a butterfly in glass.

After birth,

I became a flower.

My stone

makes my reliquary

when she naps.

Far away,

mortars,

pestles,

beaches.

I will hide her in

the hungry mountains.

Marriage

My silence is a blue tapestry
hanging by the old runny window.
Beneath my tongue the dream
dissolves, disheveled, voiceless.

Where his feet go,
my soul follows,
swimming through the cerulean sea,
stalking through the scorching sands,
clattering through canals.

His feet make tracks on the moon,
his ambition a horse for me to ride
to some frosted paradise.

In my tapestry,
the design of a snowflake,
sublime and thick.