The days of man
exceed my breath.
In the major blood surgery,
The restoration of hunger.
Something waits by the garden.
Tag: poetry
In the Desert
The red design of undefined,
undeniable desert repels touch.
The curvature of the dunes
the body of a woman rewriting
an unslakable history.
Walk five miles.
Walk ten.
Water is a cross you will never bear.
In the bare heat I shiver,
my nakedness known to the sun,
x-raying my barren dress.
Burning a Better World
I’m burning a better world,
the ash of philosophy floating
into the negligent sunset.
Pour the wine.
Light the joint.
My bathtub is filled with acid,
house scrumptious.
What ageless tree sprouts from
the tutelage of my tears,
making unwholesome promises
to the old and dry?
Inside
Taupe travel traipsing over
someone else’s days,
bypassing my breath.
In the heady blood of surgery,
The resurgence of hunger.
The twirls of terrain beyond
the tips of my last resort skin
eddy with earthy puns –
something about guarding a garden.
No woman goes beyond the
rough hewn fence,
the fossils beyond still snaggle
jawed and just.
My Knit Mind
The seams of my knit mind are rupturing,
the contents in the sack
purple and insidious.
My sight hangs from a tree.
My tongue is sacred and violated.
The fields that lie behind me
Creep ever closer. The
butterflies sharpen their fangs.
Guide the Leopard Home
With rainbow ease I
sew my image on the mirror.
I have not blinked in days,
and now I see through
clouds to the dancing dead
shimmering in copper.
When I was born
(between songs)
my self was already old
and imprinted in glass.
When my face begins to crack
the glass will implode.
My self was born some time
between yesterday and
happily never after.
I need mirrors to make me remember
the things I once had memorized,
the monotheistic candle wicks
I must light,
To guide the leopard home
through the silo of night.
Self so stiff and soft,
stitched ad infinitum
in eternity.
The Smallness of Desire
My mind is mindful.
Yours is dreaming of bread.
I have a pink envelope.
Inside,
An illegible letter to the lusts of love,
And a silver coin.
Above my furtive seekings,
My want soaked lace,
My cutlery colored currency,
The Watcher mends His watch,
The gears gnashed, our teeth gnashed.
Unfilled Fields
A glass spy spinning
World wide webs of fashionable metal.
Who sees you as well as
Your habits do?
In the habitual plunder
Of unfilled fields,
No one asks the neuron if she
Is tired as she stretches her
Tongue over the ungrateful pink plane.
Underneath the skilled chrome varnish,
Vermin and viciousness.
She
I am a marshmallow
She wants to eat,
Soft and sweet.
My long, smooth legs
A road.
Between them,
A cabin to winter in.
What is imperfect
In the sheer glossy world,
Is perfection here.
My soft waist.
My major breasts.
That soft place above my hips.
My cabin is small.
Her face at my window,
She lights a bubbly fire.
Dominated by a Day
Tomorrow lies in my bed
As rugged as a coast.
I marvel at the sleepiness of my fist.
Where has my fight gone?
Has it left me for another woman?
A woman with more steel in her back,
a chest of gravel?
Tomorrow hums,
Brawny and blue and wastefully.
I adore extravagance.
He wants to tell me what to do,
I luxuriate in commands.
I am no longer holding my dice.
They burn in the green fire writhing in the corner.
This is not my game.
This is not my life.
It is time to surrender.
Miniature Moon 