In the cemetery
trapped sin and simplicity
tinged with regret.
Under beds,
bruised bits of life.
I have called the wind
on my trite telephone
to speak with my lover in
the vintage language of distance.
The comic book store has
Only tragic books left.
One hero is asphyxiating for fun.
Another scrubs dishes in rum.
Beasts –
blue built and bundled,
and bridled brides.
Brutes weaving wispy webs.
My good mental conferences expel
content behind two leaky blue bags.
My tongue is holy and broken.
Fields behind me
Shy away.
My bracelets are sharp for them.
Cracked moon
like a mind,
or still birth balloon.
Glowing over gold fields of grain,
illuminating icy igloos,
milky white cataract of craters
crawling with crusty cultures like
a search engine.
He sees my body contort alone,
my skin cold as fright,
and if he sees my lover breathing and being
away from me
he says nothing.
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 –
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
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.
Pour wine.
Turn on.
My bar is full of acids,
scrambled house.
Chronic medicine comes from it.
Tear out my tears
Make unhealthy promises.
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.
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.
Miniature Moon 