A tree growing gnarled
inside an intrepid bubble
floating up toward a windmill made of tulips.
How Dutch my dreams are these days
And I always go Dutch with them.
I will pay for my own lead and bread
if dreams will pay for theirs.
What happens to me when I float without roots,
a microcosm of germs and stardust rising toward
my personal zenith?
There is an impossible blue countess
leching in my fear mongering back yard.
See the heartbroken morning writhe in chains.
Noon is a brutal master.
Lovers are knives,
moan low in noon light.
Cold is curious-
Travels everywhere
Like this royal blue nobility of consciousness
pontificating on cold betrayal.
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
Ultraviolet mafia
exacting private taxes on the air.
Oxygen is an independent element.
Yet shrieks when hydrogen is rended from it.
Hi.
I am a neutron.
Hi.
I am an imaginary number.
Hi.
I am dark matter.
Light blows this way
then that,
a cheap exotic dancer.
Contortionist.
Extortionist.
And always the ultraviolet mafia
is skimming some off the top.
Black pink
Space in a coma.
Sugar up and down.
Sour Sundays stay out of sight.
We are not as rich as we think we are.
Yet I have an untried umbrella,
a love of picket fences,
and black pink.
My watermother holds my heat for me
ambles through my mind reminding me
Hair won’t comb itself.
Yellow cables radiate sunshine and trigonometry.
I think about all the weeds in the sidewalk cracks
of the neighborhood where I grew up.
One woman planted roses,
A confused cloud asked no one in particular,
What does it mean to rain?
Watermother is tender.
She helps me take off my aluminum slippers,
my slummy makeup,
her mind an ever-growing equation like a cancer.
Fat shadows hulk across the afternoon.
Frilly lines flounce in the sun.
My sweat is sick,
and change eludes me
Who are these shadow people
dragging across the hours?
The road curls into
a ring I wear on my finger.
The humid spring air squeezes through
my open window,
fat
sweet
and loved.
Somewhere out there I am a baby
Writing great epistolaries in brooding vomit.
In the center of a field,
I’m ignorant,
sophisticated,
too generous,
my senses plundered
by clouds of venom
I can’t go back to the day I left
My universe of birth
and I don’t want to.
I rinsed the dust of it from my hair.
I glow pure yellow into the waking calendar,
designing my own destruction from
glitter.
Beneath the whitest pearl sky
the scent of pink lemonade wafts.
The sun is glass.
Fields trimmed in lace.
Hoards of human paraphernalia
burning, under the magnifying glass.
It’s the life of white to destroy in gentle tides.
The bitter angels in us,
the blacker angels outside.
My blood pearls. A necklace to wear.
My spirit in my high heels. Give me a scotch.
Give me talcum powder.
Embalm the fog that veils my name.
Miniature Moon 