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?
Tag: poetry
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.
Motives
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?
Surveillance
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.
Miniature Moon 