Tag: poetry

Specific Species of Special Considerations

My sentences are sprinkled

with snowy asterisks.

So many cold specific species

of special considerations.

Compounding the temerity of

this informational vacation

through the paradise of lingua franca

*commonality hell*

A virga, purple and inconsistent.

My tongue,

dry,

cracking,

goes on.

In the meadow between my

thoughts and their definitions

snowstorm as crepuscular ballet.

Tinfoil Moon

My tinfoil moon is so cheap

and glitters prolifically,

unlike the gold sun jailed

in the center of the solar system,

mined to death for its light,

wasted resource above the

bickering buildings with their

fluorescent innards.

Perhaps my dearest half will tear just the

littlest piece of my moon

to fashion me a fashionable ring.

No one loves the crinkled moon as I do,

The glitz and glam of being second best.

Aurora

I work to the tune of your aurora.

The floor wears away imperceptibly

as a woman whose dreams have

been munched by the wolf in her words.

The tundra of my inexperience thaws.

On the know-it-all breeze,

laughter that grips my heart

like a hand.

When the pollen heard you weep,

you were sainted by the grass.

Your greens, your purples.

Your lilting light that

whips through my space

like remorse.

Your song is dangerous,

damaging.

January

In the January flame everything

curls to the core to cure the cold.

The drool from your chin gleams

like seraphim.

When you became a hunting dog

in an incomparable cage,

I rose above the earth

like a nuclear cloud.

You’ve been hungry for so long,

my flowers asleep in their

bulbs dream of you as soil,

as a rain of blood.

Gnaw the chain link

and drop yourself as a wind

into the cold.

January burns like a wild

thing on the run.

Cooking

In the kitchen,

electric suns and a scorched

rain roiling up from the metal

crust like the flood Noah would

not have survived.

Hungry, I still turn away

from the last few seconds

of deserved and unearned life.

My life lays over me like a bib.

What bullets does it block

from my breasts?

Through the window,

filthy afternoon trudges in

from the rails like a hobo.

Every table in the dining room

is set to the music of

scoundrels naming their children.

From the kitchen,

streaming remnants of

finish lines.

Of Clowns and Flowers

The blooms along the

pearlescent highway have something to say.

Something hard, heavy, fragile as

a newborn Monday.

Pastel clowns zoom past me in minivans,

with children in the back,

their desperate faces pressed to the glass

like cling wrap.

There was a rehearsal for the

unification of everything,

but I could not find my third

piece among my things,

which found me tangy

and burnt like pie.

Bees drink the oily nectar,

imagine heaven swelling up

from the soil in a

prefabricated hive,

and something sweeter than honey.

The clowns roll past with

children ensconced in their nightmares.

Nothing is unified, but more

and more steel is soldered

together by errant bakers.

The flowers breathe,

begin to speak their piece.