The raindrops watch me furtively, avoiding my thirsty skin as they fall. The elevator will go down and down until the dead are dancing on you. The resin ballerina at the old wrought iron gate at the precipice of punishment resonates with me. Please commute my sentence or send me to the joy mines. Elegance and Grace get drunk off old rose at my great pearl table. In the yard with the whip cream colored unicorns, lightning licks little Lisa with bolts of genius like bolts of fabric to stretch over the folds of her cerebrum. Rainbows croon in every euphoric hue.
Tag: poet
The Future Comes to Collect
The future comes to collect minutes from my aging face. Mitosis carries out in every cell to the rhythm of Bailamos. The code corrupts like a politician. The future wears a blue gown and a crimson pelerine. Minutes vacuumed off the edge of my life now will make daisies grow in the future. I tell her to take them. My bones walked off the job, and I’ve been melting into new days. From the back of my telepathic woods, the past comes to compete for my guilt and my telomeres.
Queen Midas
Tangy recollections of pterodactyls in the yard feast on my maladapted days. A cult of glitter waits to coat my dinner. I am Queen Midas. Predators prowl the shores of my body. Body evanescent. Body effervescent. Evolution wears a red sequin dress, her leathery legs exposed, and her petrified breasts heaving in opalescent colors.
Be Real With Me
Your open face is a battleground. Behind your eyes, artillery. Every champagne glass will shatter the night you turn into a fish, and I will lap the champagne off the floor with my tongue like a kitten. Be real with me. The cold sheen of your lips tells me when you lie.
Succulent Batteries
China chips at a touch in this no woman’s land of despicable hungers. In the parlor, Good and Evil spurning their tools of trade. This text is a flashlight in a dark, resentful woods. This text is a bridge between the two factions of my consciousness. This text is an apology to the blue underside of memory. On the river, the dead decay loudly. But here in the house I give birth to baby’s breath. Good smokes pungent herbs on my back porch telling stories of his youth in New England. Evil sucks the juice from my most succulent batteries. Everywhere satisfaction is missing.
Lucid
I am quietly lucid.
I don’t say this to brag.
They say the only thing
A person can best the Devil in
Is humility.
Humility,
That soft yellow sheath
Over my glowing hot skin.
But sometimes my mind
Makes memories without me.
Other times she sneaks into my soul
And my prayers come out as cotton,
My hallelujahs thorned and unprepared
For the lustful day.
My mind plays,
Swinging between despair
And ecstasy.
Despair reeks of old fire
And dust storms.
Ecstasy writes my name
In pink pen all over Virginia.
I wish my mind was still enough
To watch children grow up.
They grow like bitterness between
The berry bushes,
Poking into the canopy
Like vines looking for something to strangle
So that they may survive.
I love all of them,
Though they chose mothers elsewhere.
Lucid Lisa loves lemon lime
Laser lights,
And she dances
(Hold on while she climbs
Back into her I)
I dance as though my feet
Were in love with the soil.
A sordid, sultry affair
Between earth
And her resident looney.
God has granted me a vision
Of aprons and crude stars
And I smoke my dreams
On my neighbor’s porch
While he mines for lobotomized diamonds
Crisp and certain.
Water
Rivers run through my names, scoffing at the idea of unified identity and advantageous silt. Along one river is a boat named the Unbearable Blue. Named for Memory’s daughter – a blue so deep it makes me ache. My heart goes spastic. Horrendous banana flavored vanity leaks out on the floor like an unsupervised ocean. Help. The sharks are here with their collection of teeth and wits.
Love Poem
This decadent night
Will be forever tattooed in my memory,
Etched in the finest folds of my
Often broken down brain.
The waves are opulent,
Flashing their white tips.
You are solid beside me,
A fantasy of a human being –
Silver hair shining under the starlight
Like mylar.
Dreams blow by us
Like coastal tumbleweed.
Breezes try to come between us,
But from now on 2 are 1.
(That’s how they do math in paradise.)
Your lips seek my yearning mouth
And you asked if you could kiss me,
And I said yes,
The exclamation mark hovering
Between us like a match.
February – Or Limits.
The ghost of February
Rummages through my garage,
Unearthing thousands of decayed dreams.
February is ice blue
Is lonely
Is unhinged.
Climate Control
Battles with her every year.
But each year February dies
And her ghost
Is a pick pocket on the beach I grew up on.
When she comes to my home,
My pink dwelling by the sea,
She searches for her brother,
January.
I do not tell her
But I buried him
And selfish ambition
Under the Norfolk Pine.
One of my dreams is delicate,
Lacy,
Shy.
Her I named Aurora
For the lights I long to see
At the ends of the Earth.
She almost turns to dust in February’s
Damp hands.
February takes a shine to her and asks me,
“May I?”
I acquiesce.
She wipes away the frost
On her eyes,
And sachets out of my garage,
My little green dream chattering away at her.
May my tender little dream
Go where I cannot.
Kitchen Knife
In the crisp, cropped morning –
gold daydreams at the edges.
I hurry to class
fantasizing about books,
about the secret haven of birds,
about a candy leopard.
The future ripples like
accommodating grass
with each turn I make.
Each choice is a wind setting out
over the plane of my uncategorized existence
like a ray of light.
What lies in the center of beauty
but a fawn sleeping soundly,
her mother still 3 days away
from the hunter’s gun?
Amiable maps will reveal
the road to catharsis,
but hide the rambling path
of permanent joy
that I have to cut into the brush myself with a kitchen knife.
Miniature Moon 