The eleventh sky watches me.
Clouds are my enemy.
Hunger worms between my teeth.
My face is not finished with you.
Beyond the town the boys
cultivate storms.
Tag: poetry
A Dream of Color
The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
sweet pink,
royal purple.
My terrible snow covers my table,
the bed.
Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,
the sound is muted.
My Life
I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn,
taken the wind for a weekend lover,
argued with the reeking river.
I live in a castle of mattresses
and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.
Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,
doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.
Missouri 2016
The houses cannot touch.
Yards stretch to reach property lines.
This is the land of a people who had a dream
of coasts and cities,
and stopped when they realized they’d already found better
Psyche Terrain
Lost colonies.
Attacking cotton balls.
The water stretching over my year.
Serendipitous discovery of disease.
An island with hideous creatures of smoke.
Aggressive violins singing in a corner I can’t forget.
I have rotting songs in a heap behind the house.
Little mimes are jerking to life in the detritus.
Sweet Blue West
The sweet blue west calls me.
A vision of endless land is seared into my eyes.
Why take this seasick sailor
and set her in the lovelorn Prairie
where emptiness is everything
and loneliness is nothing,
only to drop her from a thunderous cloud
in a crowded coastal city
to drown?
Death
Death?
I do not care for him.
He is stubborn.
I combine my breaths at night.
See Death dance like a dandy with his lover,
a sea gray prostitute
with a song caught in her throat.
Drinking
This clock is orange and extravagant
like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon
and I have a child.
In a clock,
wild excess is forgiven.
The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,
spends forever buying contraband at every border.
My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.
The Sea Under My Hair Is Hungry
Seasons of saffron,
of fairness.
Faucets of Holy water,
of an audience that never claps.
Beauty is never exotic,
Growing everywhere.
The plague is in my closet.
My shoes are conjurers,
My eyes lakes we and your father
went fishing in.
You caught tap shoes.
He caught concurrence wriggling like a worm.
I caught the cable of an elevator
and slid down into myself.
There are no lights down here.
The sea under my hair is hungry.
Dive in.
I’m watching from the bottom.
I Have a Funnel Where My Heart Should Be
Slim sunsets sink slowly.
I am a lemon. I am a thorn.
I hurl.
Water finds me grotesque.
Sometimes I sit under hospital beds and eat away at lives
like bitter battery acid.
Was it because I loved you that I siphoned your contentment
or because I have a funnel where my heart should be?
