Taupe travel traipsing over
someone else’s days,
bypassing my breath.
In the heady blood of surgery,
The resurgence of hunger.
The twirls of terrain beyond
the tips of my last resort skin
eddy with earthy puns –
something about guarding a garden.
No woman goes beyond the
rough hewn fence,
the fossils beyond still snaggle
jawed and just.
The seams of my knit mind are rupturing,
the contents in the sack
purple and insidious.
My sight hangs from a tree.
My tongue is sacred and violated.
The fields that lie behind me
Creep ever closer. The
butterflies sharpen their fangs.
With rainbow ease I
sew my image on the mirror.
I have not blinked in days,
and now I see through
clouds to the dancing dead
shimmering in copper.
When I was born
(between songs)
my self was already old
and imprinted in glass.
When my face begins to crack
the glass will implode.
My self was born some time
between yesterday and
happily never after.
I need mirrors to make me remember
the things I once had memorized,
the monotheistic candle wicks
I must light,
To guide the leopard home
through the silo of night.
Self so stiff and soft,
stitched ad infinitum
in eternity.
My mind is mindful.
Yours is dreaming of bread.
I have a pink envelope.
Inside,
An illegible letter to the lusts of love,
And a silver coin.
Above my furtive seekings,
My want soaked lace,
My cutlery colored currency,
The Watcher mends His watch,
The gears gnashed, our teeth gnashed.
A glass spy spinning
World wide webs of fashionable metal.
Who sees you as well as
Your habits do?
In the habitual plunder
Of unfilled fields,
No one asks the neuron if she
Is tired as she stretches her
Tongue over the ungrateful pink plane.
Underneath the skilled chrome varnish,
Vermin and viciousness.
Tomorrow lies in my bed
As rugged as a coast.
I marvel at the sleepiness of my fist.
Where has my fight gone?
Has it left me for another woman?
A woman with more steel in her back,
a chest of gravel?
Tomorrow hums,
Brawny and blue and wastefully.
I adore extravagance.
He wants to tell me what to do,
I luxuriate in commands.
I am no longer holding my dice.
They burn in the green fire writhing in the corner.
This is not my game.
This is not my life.
It is time to surrender.
I have a pink envelope.
Inside,
an illegible letter to the lusts of love,
and a silver pendant.
Above my furtive seekings,
my want soaked lace,
my cutlery colored currency,
The Watchmaker mends his watch,
The gears our teeth gnashed.
My hair is simple.
She loves tangles,
Loves entwining with me.
The canoes on the river
Are justified by the running train
Of water beneath them.
What combination of lips and skin
Can we design?
Her hands flare me with sweet sickness.
Her teeth tattoo me
With impatience.
On the river banks
The woods grow up.
Seek my mind,
Steep it in honey.
Warm my thighs.
In the river,
The dead swim among the rocks.
Her tongue on my breasts
Flicks me on like a light.
Her hand on my belly captures my breath.
Among the reeds,
A rusting locket with one picture.
My eyes are plastic
Blind with dew.
Oh Earth!
I am too unnatural for you.
Even my knees are suspect,
My elbows subject to your surveillance.
In a garden ages ago,
A woman who was my oldest mother
Was made of skin,
With hands of fruit.
After her,
The door slammed shut.
Angel with sword of light barring
The encapsulated botanical zoo.
Kudzu slid out the door at her ankles,
Always ready to charge and choke.
In her aggressive moniker
Teeth,
Ritualistic fire,
Serotonin.
And through the chemical canal
That was newborn woman,
Plastic people,
Synergistic city sewing.
Unfair fields mock my festivities.
Out here my breath turns to flowers.
I am a sprinkle.
I am the whole fluffy cake with buttercream frosting.
The pianist plays among the poppies ,
The flutist in the daffodils.
But the field opens up its maw
at the far end of the horizon,
and everything falls in,
Particolored joy abating in a black abyss.
Miniature Moon 