My subconscious is a group project with many subcommittees.
Hopefully there are people much smarter than me
Making some of these decisions.
As it stands,
I have my hand in an oil can
While building a house from matches.
At night I fear silence so I whisper my anthems to God,
I spend the day trying to be a kite-
And then burning every kite in a 10 mile radius because I’m mad I failed.
The wind in the conifers beckons,
Yet the subcommittees have all voted no,
And I cry in my yard
and don’t understand why I do
Desiccated red like a rose picked apart
By the sort of angry young man who would tear the wings off a butterfly
Red speaks to me in a cracked voice.
She was a sultry with a temper.
Now her skin is a desert.
She tells me to avoid the heat of summer and grasp spring-
Before the boys become men by the river
I lay in bed at night thinking about that rose
And her love for me.
Bereaved valleys cave under the pressure of a flooded dam.
Poke enough holes with the refillable pencil you stole from Anthony
And anything can happen.
The valley is lost.
He doesn’t understand what he did.
For everything on Earth there is a cause-
Except for you, who rose from nothing and names the dead.
A highway with a necklace of beer glass.
I too am hemmed in by glass,
By broken mirrors and dashed bottles of wine and my second sight glasses a finished suicide.
Trucks come so bright,
And taxi drivers look with pity
As I walk miles in the snow without gloves,
Trying to get my new space heater home and turned on.
Then a man quietly pulls up next to me
And offers a ride.
His taxi is a minivan and I see his meter up front.
I told him thank you, but I have no money.
He said he wanted to help. No charge.
That is what we mean when we say love your neighbor.
Clean diagonals are a favorite,
Chevron and parallel.
Parallels are easy,
Lonely yet satisfied
In a trip by herself in an untouched sliver of real.
Perpendiculars are problems.
Where two lines meet there is a point I can’t make,
An indispensable collision.
What happens at a point stays there
But the two lines on their way to nothing
Are forever changed.
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.
Roses want facts.
The perfection of geometry turns them
Into origami beauty.
Wind has a science,
But breeze is also an uninterpretable art.
Carpentry measured and flush to my forehead.
The rays of the moon in my dance,
Lethal spillage of color.
I’m short on butterflies.
The hypocrites are barely saved.
When I lose my voice
Splendor will smell me.
Closed water storage area.
The yellow letter
I can’t fathom the more dangerous work.
In my dressing pocket,
It’s a yellow nine.
I get my pancakes with extra syrup
When my husband makes breakfast.
I understand the shape of my body.
It is large and unrestricted.
And to come upon desire
With a desire for hidden light
Is to make lemonade in sum.
All 9 of my colors are yellow.
One book is very simple,
Don’t take 90 years to decide.
Taking emotional plans,
And you’ve gone over the edge with my name.