Checkered chance chews checkbooks.
Why browse for blood in a
sepulchre of bone?
I snoozed sullen
through lush yellow years,
and awoke to find a battery
operated possibility charging itself
from the mainframe of my
straying face.
Moisture requires maintenance.
The remains of a multitude
choosing at last to rest,
though dead from inception –
Tag: writing
What is Gone….What is Left
radio static stands rigid in my room
the exorcist has been suffocated
by the weight of westward wanting
no one comes for the skull of
fresh stone
beyond my neighbor’s upright fence,
my grave guarded by bluejays
what I hear is sand and sea
in séance with salt,
who has disappeared behind a
shredded shrine
Weightless
My Mondays are cocooned,
my years a chrysalis from which
only my age emerges.
Safe in my silverlit silk, I am
an unsung liquor,
and unbefriended possibility.
Failure cannot gnaw my alabaster soul.
In my serene rooms,
I float weightless,
worry bought and sold by someone else.
Untitled 89
Pour wine.
Turn on.
My bar is full of acids,
scrambled house.
Chronic medicine comes from it.
Tear out my tears
Make unhealthy promises.
Woman
On the bridge of her lips I consider crossing –
my hips a sailboat with no sails.
Behind me, daisies.
Beneath me, silk drenched with dream.
In the sweet musk of human frailty
I rollick like a ship to sea
when she gazes at me,
knife to meat,
erosion to beach.
Destruction never was so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched,
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.
Daylight Dancer
In my plush, pink experience,
roses are more exquisite
dancers than I,
and it takes courage like a billboard
to be a daylight dancer.
The stones are brutal past
under blackened pressure.
Diamonds are never what they seem,
strings of ghosts like lights
around my neck.
What I write in white with
my digital digits –
a secret between my sin and the wind.
Man and Mice
A pointillist point pontificates
on how many men it takes to paint
a portrait of dramatic, carcinogenic war.
In my closet,
a gun,
in my mind,
strange acts of sex and survival.
Distinguishable by rudimentary colors,
indistinguishable by sedimentary feuds.
In my Freudian slip I attract fireflies,
corpulent river deltas,
expunged scales of seething grain.
Behind the house a man grows mice
to furnish pale places with plague.
He will slide home when the death
evaporates like hail in heat,
find himself in my wet caverns.
From Beginning to End
The days of man
exceed my breath.
In the major blood surgery,
The restoration of hunger.
Something waits by the garden.
In the Desert
The red design of undefined,
undeniable desert repels touch.
The curvature of the dunes
the body of a woman rewriting
an unslakable history.
Walk five miles.
Walk ten.
Water is a cross you will never bear.
In the bare heat I shiver,
my nakedness known to the sun,
x-raying my barren dress.
Burning a Better World
I’m burning a better world,
the ash of philosophy floating
into the negligent sunset.
Pour the wine.
Light the joint.
My bathtub is filled with acid,
house scrumptious.
What ageless tree sprouts from
the tutelage of my tears,
making unwholesome promises
to the old and dry?
Miniature Moon 