Splendor

The rays of the moon in my dance,
Lethal spillage of color.

I’m short on butterflies.
The hypocrites are barely saved.

When I lose my voice
Splendor will smell me.

Saturday-
Closed water storage area.

WIP 9th Letter

The yellow letter
Number 9
I can’t fathom the more dangerous work.

In my dressing pocket,
It’s a yellow nine.

I get my pancakes with extra syrup
When my husband makes breakfast.

I understand the shape of my body.
It is large and unrestricted.
And to come upon desire
With a desire for hidden light
Is to make lemonade in sum.

Daffodil,
Cream,
Egg yolk,
1980s hotpants
All 9 of my colors are yellow.

One book is very simple,
Don’t take 90 years to decide.

Taking emotional plans,
Airplanes,
And you’ve gone over the edge with my name.

Moods

The state of the art fog hides me.
When traveling I go hand in hand with the saints.

The tunnel is at the end of the light.
There is no difference between my moods
And my imperfect soul.

Yesterday is gone,
And his ashes were scattered by train.

Boiling water must be discussed in the pool.

Claws and Colors

Shivering yelps race to the edge of audible.

There are always claws on our edges,

Steering us away from the yelling
The time spent idling in swimming pools judging extra colors

And into a song on repeat.
Even the acrobats and ballerinas will die in the end.

It was my last gasp
That fluttered across the wind.

Moon and Stars

Stars do not stoop before moons,
Only before an invisible God. Ringing the multiverse with fire.

Moons are delicate,
Sound like flutes as they spin.
Moons are sleepy debutantes
Over each devouring body.

Stars, arrogant,
Give each other more space
Than is wise.

They Lie

the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie

that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-

tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday

There is no compassion
in industry.

you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere

Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.

Female

the globe gingerly turns
on an axis she would not
have picked for herself
if given the choice

she has a crush on the
black hole
that calls her sometimes

something about that
event horizon
feels so remarkably other

her identity is unknown to her
not even the sun will tell
her she is gifted

January

I take a bath with a
Blue haiku –
The fewer the words
The more July the language.

So much steam.
I am a puddle in a pool
In a pond.
When I evaporate
No one notices.
Not even me.

I rise to the brevity
Of language and
Citric summer