Peppermint legs
Cool with the giant stripe of red legging.
She stands in her podium of potatoes
And sings Christmas carols to her children
Who hear their mother singing but don’t hear what she says.
Glasses make little things look bigger,
So finish your beer and peer into your glass.
This – candy holiday mother and spiced potatoes and unacknowledged songs
Will fade and they will wonder what they wanted to hear
And if she said it.
Sick blue saxophones see the thermal inferno.
He has said “I will never lose the true facts.”
She has said, “I will never abandon my corners ”
Music drifts to hell.
Where will they go in the silence that follows?
The gold thread holding
Leadership’s hammock
Is fraying like my personality.
I put my star-spangled mouth
On my husband’s face
with no aim.
His breath cascades over my
Neck.
Everyone on our street
has a laundry room but me
Our little girl wears old
Onesies and roller skates
in the shower.
The emperor has clothes.
He just doesn’t want us
to see them.
like a mathematician
he subtracts us one by one
where I go, my husband goes
his breath locked onto
my hips.
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
It rains on desert,
Granola,
Landsscape.
The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.
He had the levels of hell all wrong.
There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.
Hell is a life if obligator dancing.
Two invisible legs of glass. Six yellow as yolk. Fiberglass hairs. Flippant fangs.
The house does not stop running. In my snare drum diagram, it indicates a problem with things that don’t make a sound.
He’s crawling into your purse…
…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
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.
This is a photo of one of my poetry journals. I often like to order pretty washi tape and add it to the pages. And of course, glitter is life.
I painted a negative picture
of a sun staring at my youth
like Big Brother.
1984 came and went.
My face is in the cage with
the rats,
but Julia holds the key.
My hands go on painting
without color
the surveillance of a rose,
chattering teeth,
an unworn sash.
Miniature Moon 