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.
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.
The days of man
exceed my breath.
In the major blood surgery,
The restoration of hunger.
Something waits by the garden.
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.
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?
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.
Miniature Moon 