A bedraggled ghost chills by my lamp,
white and soft
with a voice of freezing fire.
We who God forgets can drink together,
listening to the bobcats mating and murdering outside
in the throbbing dark.
Tag: poetry
Home for Sale
Spacious container for living
Available for sale.
See how my memories project over the walls,
Flickering movies with the sound low.
Sunburned moments flit past the windows like dust,
The living room a ball room for the most romantic
Versions of everyone else.
To Stop Drowning
To get into this empty boat,
My attraction breaks my muscles with
Their teeth
She can shout.
This is the first time,
This bony body of beautiful bridges.
Upward I want to wash,
Digging,
My face loss is looking for a basis
Natural.
Writer’s Block
To dive into this shallow pool,
My skull breaking my jaws breaking my teeth
Takes a noisy skill.
This is the end of the beginning,
Of this bony body of beautiful bridges.
To advance higher I need to dive deepest,
Dig,
Lose my face searching for the base
Of creation.
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.
Color
A world of color is rich,
is all I need in this fog as heavy as malevolence.
What I need is a glass of hot pink,
an elixir of glowing purple,
a tincture of pool blue,
languid and electric.
My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale
on my bedside table
while a documentary on contemporary
art stabs me in shades of black and white,
Sound muted.
The Gaping O
I am an absence of air.
Paris writes me telling me not to come.
Many things have fallen
into the gaping O of love.
My sick senses stretch like a violin note over
a ghostly concert hall.
Halls are caverns.
I have a hall inside my city
And he waits there.
He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,
I the suction of quicksand.
A Love Like October
Singing into the bush
a lilac on a lark.
A love like October,
orange and fast.
The lilac has a heated language,
a boiling pattern of speech.
Frost is mute,
Abused,
Sinful.
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
needing shelter.
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.
Man
He casts his net among the rocks.
Broken jaws chatter beneath the water.
Two towns over he is a baby licking
his mother’s paintings.
Today he is a glass hunter
All shine and no stick.
Water
Look up water.
See what books,
so fearful of the subject,
refuse to stay.
Flowers gasp to stay afloat.
His desires spirit him away.
His desire to finger the piano,
her
with or without her face.
The touch of her mind on the water
regal red.
Life and I do not care who we have.
He is
crunched afterbirth.
Miniature Moon 