Packages from my mother are shipment brown
and sing Handel’s Messiah.
A spiral telephone cord connects us,
and when I need to face West for any reason
it pulls my mother toward her front door.
I remember being a child and playing telephone with two cups and a string.
That was the first time an angel was on the other end of the line.
In the bathroom mirror my eyes are dials.
A thrill purist.
Only the fastest falls.
The meteoric rises.
In the awesome hydrangeas,
I am taking my injection of cool collectivism.
I am so sick with speed and simpering.
In my silly string garden,
I play with the dead.
Among the maples,
Adam hunts Eve,
wants his rib back.
Incalculable chemicals take their daily calcium,
Get stronger and stronger on blood broth,
and the fields sleep.
The battle is tomorrow.
I run my fingers through feathered grass and
think,
How many hordes would maim and dismember
to choose what I do with my sculpture of bone?
The new war is personalized,
minute,
cerebral.
The chemicals leave trails
vociferous and victorious.
Smothering red smoke oppresses the plain.
Sleep is burning in the rugged field.
Friend, give me your coals.
My daughter is an ember.
My eyebrows speak sign language.
I have long languid lashes.
Good Lord, it is hot.
Metal boy,
a clockwork gear.
Across the fields my friend waits,
a locket of thistles and thorns.
I am the other half.
I am a hemisphere of sharp milk and prowling honey.
The clock Chimes.
My belly hurts.
Threaded through the thoroughbred spring
a static strand of silt.
Behind the last woods,
a chipped picket fence.
Beyond that, lonely babies floating
in a colorless void.
May I apply for their motherhood?
I am 50 roads stitched together
with a bus yellow thread.
I can provide opportunity,
the Milky Way,
tarnished silver.
I am stripping the yellow wallpaper
with my rabid teeth.
See the illuminations behind it,
so many gold filigree letters.
But no meaning to be scraped
from the lines and curves.
The Holy Text is hidden,
happy to be away from us
and our meandrous analytics.
Blue stripes,
Lines.
Write.
Machinate.
Dream.
Yellow stripping,
buttercup sunshine piercing my brain.
This tree keeps me limber.
I have love but you’ll have to take the floor model
Inside the apple the worm tries to slim down.
I have an erotic stairwell.
I am a song and he loops in and out all day long.
This steroidal fire can be induced by people as
so many Allosaurus’s, thrilling, chilling, killing.
My bedroom at home folds in on itself,
origami fortune teller,
and when I leave this petrifying zoo
I will have to try to find my way back in.
My bed was taken from my rib,
a helpmeet just for me.
And these pills
Oh these pills!
See how they make me bend.
A ghost climbs up the tree and
I get wet with desire.
Impressionist teeth crumble as they nibble
on a diary of construction.
What painting can enclose
this world by the water?
What fuzzy brush can I use
to spread the remains of the rainbow
over this voluminous canvas?
I need Impressionism.
Accuracy just can’t do this justice.
Outrageous longing stretches the ocean,
For the plans are thirsty and Inhabited
by must and dust.
The starfish’s world churns.
Catch turbidity for me. Chew on it a little.
The land draws the ocean ever closer,
watched only by an ether that loves no one.
Miniature Moon 