Metal boy,
a clockwork gear.
Across the fields my friend waits,
a locket of thistles and thorns.
I am the other half.
I am a hemisphere of sharp milk and prowling honey.
The clock Chimes.
My belly hurts.
Threaded through the thoroughbred spring
a static strand of silt.
Behind the last woods,
a chipped picket fence.
Beyond that, lonely babies floating
in a colorless void.
May I apply for their motherhood?
I am 50 roads stitched together
with a bus yellow thread.
I can provide opportunity,
the Milky Way,
tarnished silver.
I am stripping the yellow wallpaper
with my rabid teeth.
See the illuminations behind it,
so many gold filigree letters.
But no meaning to be scraped
from the lines and curves.
The Holy Text is hidden,
happy to be away from us
and our meandrous analytics.
Blue stripes,
Lines.
Write.
Machinate.
Dream.
Yellow stripping,
buttercup sunshine piercing my brain.
This tree keeps me limber.
I have love but you’ll have to take the floor model
Inside the apple the worm tries to slim down.
I have an erotic stairwell.
I am a song and he loops in and out all day long.
This steroidal fire can be induced by people as
so many Allosaurus’s, thrilling, chilling, killing.
My bedroom at home folds in on itself,
origami fortune teller,
and when I leave this petrifying zoo
I will have to try to find my way back in.
My bed was taken from my rib,
a helpmeet just for me.
And these pills
Oh these pills!
See how they make me bend.
A ghost climbs up the tree and
I get wet with desire.
Impressionist teeth crumble as they nibble
on a diary of construction.
What painting can enclose
this world by the water?
What fuzzy brush can I use
to spread the remains of the rainbow
over this voluminous canvas?
I need Impressionism.
Accuracy just can’t do this justice.
Outrageous longing stretches the ocean,
For the plans are thirsty and Inhabited
by must and dust.
The starfish’s world churns.
Catch turbidity for me. Chew on it a little.
The land draws the ocean ever closer,
watched only by an ether that loves no one.
Masterful
Derogatory
Spacious
Hunger devours my fingers
one by one.
Eventually, I won’t be able to write at all.
My bunny wears very professional sweater vests,
pushes paper,
makes my neighbors disappear,
Reappear in my living room
naked and odd.
My stomach hates me.
On the kitchen island,
Roses as love letter to my floating shoes.
Light omnipresent,
staring lewdly.
Oh so hard to meditate
on the hillocks of the brain.
Hands going going gone
At the bottom of the blue river
(What I meant to write was head of the river)
is a rich red vein.
So easily the tube can be cut,
the water purpled.
But then all the fish would flee for other tributaries,
except one,
searching this river over and over for blue water.
Grateful skirts swirl in a breeze maybe meant for them.
Design is Holy,
is enamored of its Designer,
is a crossroads of means and ends.
A housewife manufactures sunshine in her laboratory,
the beakers from the store always having a sale,
her thesis supervised by green,
and critiqued by her children.
After 20 years who will know whether the
skirts were mended or replaced?
Just that they were infused with laughter
and smelled like mother in the living room
living with her eyes full.
Translated into Afrikaans and Xhosa, then back:
Skirts twirl in the grateful air
they were meant for.
Design and the Holy Spirit,
are enamored
of each other.
Is the intersection of the cross where it all begins?
The woman who produced the sun in her lab,
is studying all the ways you make happiness from the mundane.
Her thesis is green from watching her children.
After 20 years will you know that
the aprons can be repaired or replaced?
You will appreciate the humor.
She won’t.
skirts and gratitude for the atmosphere,
either of them.
Design and Holy Spirit,
make enamored designs,
are the ends on the cross.
The woman who makes the sun in her lab,
Her laboratory in Delaware furnished by a company
in Hong Kong.
Her thesis supervision is green.
So is the clock looking at her children’s energy,
their youth,
her youth.
After 20 years you will know that
the skirts can be repaired or replaced.
As you appreciate the humor in it,
and sort mothers by whether they baked cookies or used the microwave.
In her eyes you live fully,
live fully alone.
The cessation of Fire
in me is like a white wall of Holy cold.
I manufacture crosses.
I carry most of them.
Others I strap to my man and my baby.
Suffering sleeps at the end of my bed,
takes up space.
drives me away in the middle of the night.
Sometimes I drive to a gold mine and wish for another God
if I cannot have another me.
Miniature Moon 