I have 22 pounds of wishes hidden among the weeping wisteria.
The flowers by the pond have been melancholy a long time.
I drink with them.
Look at Lily’s tattoos.
Kind of abstract, don’t you think?
I’ve been told some people are really into that.
But the roses and I share the best laughs because we know it is not about pattern
but all about color and that soft, sweet texture on the fingerpads.
Meanwhile the snapdragons do deep, twisted math at the waters edge
and I drop a wish in the water.
Recapturing yourself will be easy.
White still in the bedroom,
structure from private, necessary snow.
dreaming of silence.
Your mind is a playground of artillery.
Capturing the sense of yourself will be hard,
Lost 2 feet tall in a field of chaff.
The women have needles and no yarn.
A man sits toward the curdling sun,
his face a mouth.
Sound your siren song
A gentle offering of wisteria wishes
and sulking letters.
Give her a sonorous rope to tie round her wrist
a little balloon bobbing desperately toward mass.
You are a systemic failure,
a weed I will use to make a poultice for my feet.
My jaw is slack and exhausted from talking to God,
my ears reverent from listening.
Sunlight colonizes the window glass,
makes cities we can see but not feel.
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.
Miniature Moon 