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.
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.
…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
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.
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.
My motives caravan
through a red, peerless desert.
Water travels just ahead
slightly faster than either I
or my mirror glass needs
can go.
Out here,
straws and dictionaries
present serious problems.
As though it were dead skin
scraped from the devil’s heel
by a pumice stone,
my purest motive blows
around the others.
If I flew my determinations
like kites,
attached to my stringy nerves,
could they rise to Heaven
and beg for a cloud?
I escape from the camera,
breaking through the
red tape
like a finish line.
What difference does it
make if the old house
turns blue?
The surveillance of my feet
reveals slick roads.
Confined actors in a play
poorly scripted.
The wasps I shared my
candies with
sting one another.
The other side of bureaucratic eyes
is a dim place,
shy from old rejections.
Always working,
the wind grumbles
about juggling too many kites.
The rain relieves him
of this data,
but not today.
I hang from my own
clothes line.
My daughter attaches
my umbilical cord.
I am ready to fly.
Agnostic calendars
are great for those
whose lives are spiced
with regret.
On the cutting board,
her right arm.
Home is smart.
Weather is dumb,
beating the bones
out of what already dies.
Scattered,
the months refuse
to coalesce into a year.
She wants what she
can’t have—
a private train.
Her old job
encased amber.
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.
Miniature Moon 