Bride of comparison,
you have found me
Living through lacy love letters
to the glowing voice of the world.
I have loved and lived
and lavished
like a euphoric angel,
all over the world.
See how North America quakes beneath my hands?
Hear the tender whispers of my name from Europe.
I am tired of molds and braces and boxes
What They have is not better than what I have.
Always They come with a capital T and claws.
They possess than,
But I hold hands with Then,
And waltz over the sea.
Welcome to the Life Center,
with sparkly resources to help you warm winter.
Are you a cartwheel?
A suspicious glance?
A still wind?
We can help you get back to work.
We offer many courses:
Earth Spinning
Bone Knitting
Light Painting –
and certifications in
Prebirth Fantasy,
Pain Sculpture
Freeway Fashion.
Visit us today in the Building of Roses,
at the corner of Air and Fire.
Gloomy, graceful ghosts
lounge under a beach umbrella.
They are nudists.
They are as frosted glass.
No sunburns will befall them
as they get drunk.
And carouse on the beach where they
washed ashore
An envelope locked out of sight.
Buttercups giggling in the fields.
A pink fog rolls over the view.
It is all so dreamy.
Don’t bring a mirror here.
A liquid music froths up from my bubble bath
and I tell Industry to get out
and Perseverance to get in next.
These old gods are filthy.
I broke all the strings on my father’s guitar
and now I sell them separately.
Broken is beautiful.
Broke is deadly.
On the river my father sleeps in his kayak,
dreams of work.
Always he works.
Murmur to me.
Amuse me with your fondest memories
of things that never happened to you.
Mellow ghosts hover high in the heat
drugged on what they stole from my secret box.
Honest textures undulate
in this valley of embarrassment.
Your face is plane.
Eyes unending.
Why did I loose my secrets on a world of cold mirth,
of casual scorn?
The immeasurable suffering of the sun in summer-
to work and work
and nothing but the self is immolated.
I too am an ambitious failure,
unable to turn the tide,
washing my linens with tears.
I know what it is to be fire surrounded by emptiness
and ice.
Low, cool moan of train
curving through this
sleeping town
cold as coins.
wet as tears.
Going is an equation –
an answer with no questions
I’m a brook gurgling
beyond the tracks,
emitting beams of lonely light
Miniature Moon 