Speckled woman,

a zing in the sun,

outshining everyone.

 

In the crumbling marsh,

the fairy of lights

is raging through the reeds.

 

But inside the sprinkled, speckled, freckled woman light,

there is a darkness drawing the empty city ever closer.

Tangerine wars have been waged

on this page of history,

And the man in the dark gray jacket is about

to turn the page,

and the new page is plastered with little boys.

Some grow lemons.

Some grow limes.

At the bottom of the page

the great Citrus Wars break out

like measles in a less half hearted century.

I am the virus that stalks through the trenches,

muting and murdering.

This war so tangy and pulped,

is only a mid day snack.

Extra-societal throngs

Perambulate through my old home.

 

Oh little yellow cottage!

I adore you!

With your evanescent doors,

your windows that only speak open,

your encapsulating buttercup bloom walls.

You were designed for me.

 

If I pluck a strand of hair

and leave it in a corner,

will you remember me?

 

I have loved you since you sprung up from the ground.

Turn away anyone who loves you less than us.

At the back of the throng a face perks up,

falls in love with your nurturing.

 

Sold.

 

White citrus,

Pale wedding.

The Champagne all bubbles and drunk.

The hour fizzy and fuzzy;

blue hand clasped with the year.

The year is forever rolling away.

Tell me again your private mythology,

your cramped beginnings.

 

Unfurl the fire,

bask in the bright heat.

Home is so many tailored calico outcasts.

The cat slinks toward the transparent door,

hunts Bethlehem.

What waits in the rusted cradles,

Mouth gaping,

wanting the middle of men?

 

Are you nipping the fire as you did me?

How do you feel now that your message is miniscule

particulate floating in my lungs?

You were one long tooth phrase

they shouldn’t have written out loud.

Oh scrumptious cash!

How I longed for you when your

green paint floated above my fingers,

And now that I have a part of you,

Swaddled like a prized baby,

I long to share you

with a needy, needful world.

 

There’s a leak in my monstrous island,

the fossils falling out the bottom into a superlative sea.

I cannot patch it with barbed wire and fire,

that’s all I have.

I am an extremist.

I am the mountain.

I am the valley.

I am the lava that flows like a spring to the sea.

Soon, Darling, we will sink to the bottom,

forever cold and flat.

 

What if tomorrow,

a day that hides in my petticoat,

there is no silver chalice?

Tomorrow the crowds are dry,

whirring like so much dust.

Please take your watering can, tip it over,

spill out the poems.

Poems are wet.

Drip a little onto your hands,

quench the angry hordes with

yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Nourishing blue planets undulate in the breeze –

sweet, fluffy flavored,

The nectar refreshes like Cola.

By the brook,

an indigo shadow bird hunts for fearless fish.

I relate to the fish.