A diamond rose blooms.

Bring your interesting mug to me.

I’ll kiss it pretty.

In the fields,

wealth,

so tepid and money colored.

The robin has no place to land,

though there are worms everywhere.

 

Lemony sun

with long hair smothering the Earth.

Night in her silken pelerine

strolls sipping absinthe.

She wanders from me but is not lost.

Under the sun’s tresses

I trespass.

Champagne rain.

Ice sculpture of God.

Lights out.

Melt blasphemy quickly.

The silver triangle attracts children

for miles around,

which draws the velvet mothers.

In blackness,

Equality.

Onyx liberation.

The malleable mallards,

drunk on the rain,

roll and tip in a rad pond.

Bubble spangled air.

Fizz.

Finality.

 

Scarlet slipknot,

A lace bracelet on a wrist

crisscrossed with tracks.

Euphoria.

The floor creaking

under the creek in the hallway.

My sister of smoke and silence is swimming.

I am shattering my mirror,

performing surgery with

The fractured image-

image of eye roving over my man,

a leg stretching exhausted.

To remove the thought

I must cut deeply.

Mirror glass is such a rough tool.

I see and my seeing is reflected

back to me.

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.