I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn,
taken the wind for a weekend lover,
argued with the reeking river.
I live in a castle of mattresses
and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.
Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,
doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.
The houses cannot touch.
Yards stretch to reach property lines.
This is the land of a people who had a dream
of coasts and cities,
and stopped when they realized they’d already found better
Lost colonies.
Attacking cotton balls.
The water stretching over my year.
Serendipitous discovery of disease.
An island with hideous creatures of smoke.
Aggressive violins singing in a corner I can’t forget.
I have rotting songs in a heap behind the house.
Little mimes are jerking to life in the detritus.
The sweet blue west calls me.
A vision of endless land is seared into my eyes.
Why take this seasick sailor
and set her in the lovelorn Prairie
where emptiness is everything
and loneliness is nothing,
only to drop her from a thunderous cloud
in a crowded coastal city
to drown?
Death?
I do not care for him.
He is stubborn.
I combine my breaths at night.
See Death dance like a dandy with his lover,
a sea gray prostitute
with a song caught in her throat.
Seasons of saffron,
of fairness.
Faucets of Holy water,
of an audience that never claps.
Beauty is never exotic,
Growing everywhere.
The plague is in my closet.
My shoes are conjurers,
My eyes lakes we and your father
went fishing in.
You caught tap shoes.
He caught concurrence wriggling like a worm.
I caught the cable of an elevator
and slid down into myself.
There are no lights down here.
The sea under my hair is hungry.
Dive in.
I’m watching from the bottom.
Slim sunsets sink slowly.
I am a lemon. I am a thorn.
I hurl.
Water finds me grotesque.
Sometimes I sit under hospital beds and eat away at lives
like bitter battery acid.
Was it because I loved you that I siphoned your contentment
or because I have a funnel where my heart should be?
Cacti calculate incalculable records of sand.
You hold my hand.
The rocks wear red,
the nation of vegetation wears tan
like the leather journal I write all my mud sonnets in.
If you are not careful I will cook for you.
Do you quiver at the thought of me,
fire in one hand sacrifice in the other,
learning to sew?
Philanthropic glass birds wheel overhead.
I am a litany of byproducts.
My ocean is killing me,
Clipping onto me with Mary blue claws and
pulling a piece off at a time.
Suggest yarn,
rope,
a tale of few cities.
Something to tie and bind me,
amoeba shaped and expunged.
You are my cilia,
take me where the crystalline birds nest.
In the maturescence of time,
the callous heavens will descend
and coat everything in pearls.
The sea will become useless,
the blood on your bed bathetic.
Who will we be without our sins,
washed white as winter?
Miniature Moon 