Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
Tag: writing
Choices
Piquant wood shavings
build houses from one another.
Natural selection,
the choices of the man in the barn with his saw.
The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.
If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.
Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.
When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.
The Wrens
Banished to the well, the little boat that steered itself.
No strength welcome here in the miserly home of wrens.
Shoe laces control a careful electricity.
Wrens like knives, ask toddlers to carry them.
Glad Gloria had the boat. Now she has her name changed. She will never be 3.
The wrens eat well, don’t share with one another.
Not a Performer
My lips are freaks.
I am burlesque.
I am not a performer
What my figure is full of
Could add to addition.
Doors show more than windows
Depending on their angle.
Wanting
Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
What does the # Sign Mean?
Gold stop sign. Blue go light. Our teams will fight on the train home. What comes next is rain of diamonds and jars.
What Kind of Spider is This?
Two invisible legs of glass. Six yellow as yolk. Fiberglass hairs. Flippant fangs.
The house does not stop running. In my snare drum diagram, it indicates a problem with things that don’t make a sound.
He’s crawling into your purse…
Yellow
Yellow is so small between
My breasts
If she’s looking for my heart
She won’t find it there
My attic contains orgasms
And fireworks
Yellow can set off both
Into my mouth she climbs
Like the scent of a
Song I no longer have
Polka Dots
The basket is left
Solid pink –
The polka dots dieting
Subtraction is valued.
Less is more
Is the theory
But what is more?
It cannot be less
Where do the little
White polka dots go
When they subtract
The pink from themselves?
The Cave of the Crow
The cave of the crow
Is an eerie place
There is nowhere to sit
The hungry lynx in
The back
Is mildly terrified
When the sound of the crow
Reverberates
(he has no music)
The walls get stronger
Light does not linger
On the face
The lynx laughs
There will be no food
But the languishing
Might be all he needs
Miniature Moon 