I was Lysol scented
dark light opening doors everyone wanted shut.
She was a bursting gummy bear the woman hugged
then devoured slowly.
But no one eats poison.
No one devours a sour black light,
and no one hugs it either.
Tag: writing
Sweet Blue West
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?
Lost Colonies
Lost colonies.
Attacking cotton balls.
The water stretching over my year.
Serendipitous discover 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.
My Soul
Deaf electromagnetic angels
cobble shoes on my front porch,
My porch overgrown with frogs.
I will walk across the whispering world in these shoes,
My soul protected by the soles,
my salvation stored in my pinky toe –
the heart I stub so often it broke.
Salvation
Emeralds mature before the rain.
Lightning is waiting for horrible drugs.
What if smoke comes before fire?
What rain is cool and feeds except salvation?
The Baby Search Engine
The baby search engine crawls on my floor
Eating cheerios and spitting out good advice
He will never understand.
To remove a hate stain from cotton,
Whitewash in bleach.
How do I know the little search engine is male?
The way he references his own expertise.
I Live
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.
A Dream of Color
The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
sweet pink,
royal purple.
My terrible snow covers my table,
the bed.
Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,
the sound is muted.
The Days Baked in my Face
Parisian plastic and crisp churches
Line the rain with loveliness.
At the edge of wet and dry reflections fly free.
I am painted with velvet sound,
eating my turpentine soup.
How lonely are the days baked in my face?
Impostor Syndrome
Insinuating sorrows imply
I haven’t earned my crags and gashes.
What a diamond life I lead
Under equally asymptomatic rain.
Miniature Moon 