Name of our last daffodil
This amphibian plays fiddle
Why not blow away the rain?
Tag: poetry
How To Get Psych Meds Over the Weekend
First, throw up the lights. Now you can move. Track down a sparrow for hire. Do you know how to handle a problem with a cape? Strap the house to the humane society. No one stands you up or puts you down. No 50 dollar donation and a signed form to give you any mercy. Go beg. Get that sparrow.
Why do knives chip?
Sparrow plead with them for my years still locked in the morning vault.
Work in progress.
Suggested
Seashore of officials. Miami has been a bad choice. Winter writers flutter like they were born to make their children feel so strange. The law has changed since I was a reptilian woman. I have laid my eggs in front of my hourglass. Children – they slide into chambers, sew themselves suits. Why comb a bald beach of boiling beer?
Green Code
The grass is a code.
I can’t read it,
But I know the rabbit
Hiding against my fence can.
That’s why he’s hiding
What I do know is
That the flower’s teeth
Have been chattering
All morning.
The hawk is tethered
To his nest.
He is of no concern
The chemicals will move
With grace
A gentle burning
That lulls life away.
Changing Landscape
The monsoon
Hit the desert hard
He had been through
So much,
But this?
Life smokes some weed
And doesn’t care.
Drowning in fluorescent
Torrents,
Sand looks for a way
Out.
Explode
My tectonic youth
is subducting.
I explode on my paper house
as a black cherry ash
Particles of my personality
Swell
up
like a flooded
Well.
If I wasn’t so brilliant
I would drown.
The diamonds forming
Under my tongue save me
And tell a story of fun.
Eating Men
My sheath is made of leather.
I am a woman.
I am a knife.
Tonight I will dine
on an industrial
Dynasty,
eating in the workspace
of men –
Eating men.
Iron rising from my pulse
To the air
I see my doppelganger –
The pregnant cat
Luring the mouse.
This is part of my project to write poems that pair with colors and textures, or the other way around.
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
Books
The electric book hums,
breath gently, contently
escaping between pages.
What if you popped a balloon
and the air kept coming
and coming?
This conjuncture stays in
the library where it belongs
tended by the purple librarian.
In the living room
the dance has become
joints half eaten by microbes,
rhythmically popping.
What starts as a good time
will end in death
as it always does.
In the shelves,
a sleeping beast with my face.
Can’t Be Held
I have released pleasure
from my net.
Over the years I have
captured every domesticated thrill,
caught every unguarded illusion.
But pleasure was the prize.
I cannot nail it in my shadowbox.
It withers when it does
not travel.
Miniature Moon 