Singing into the bush
a lilac on a lark.
A love like October,
orange and fast.
The lilac has a heated language,
a boiling pattern of speech.
Frost is mute,
Abused,
Sinful.
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
needing shelter.
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.
He casts his net among the rocks.
Broken jaws chatter beneath the water.
Two towns over he is a baby licking
his mother’s paintings.
Today he is a glass hunter
All shine and no stick.
Look up water.
See what books,
so fearful of the subject,
refuse to stay.
Flowers gasp to stay afloat.
His desires spirit him away.
His desire to finger the piano,
her
with or without her face.
The touch of her mind on the water
regal red.
Life and I do not care who we have.
He is
crunched afterbirth.
A forbidden food is silly
but demonic and understandable
on a Tuesday when you clock in
(If people can turn clock into a verb for such
nefarious purposes, they need to stay away from my sofa and window.)
and you feel five feet wide and are at least 1.
Chocolate bars are exotic and exciting. Do not listen to
the pizza. He will charm you out of your 2s and into 10s.
Eat your salad.
It wants to die,
is dying,
wants you to follow along.
Ignore the demeaning soda. It hates you.
Your teeth whither.
Why are all the women in bigger sizes so much smaller than you?
Your bones shrink at the reproach.
Beauty has frost bite and is just
going to live that way.
The stench is aggressive.
I have been living whichever way is out of sight
from Age and Lust.
Beauty and I go way back
to a year I only remember as a pile of sugar to play in.
Skin scrubs keep Age away.
The truth is Beauty and Lust have never met,
though some think they are a couple.
Lust’s eyes are inverted in her face,
her longings contorted and her hearth
cold.
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?
A congress of confetti has decreed
every wind must blow up.
The ground breathes.
I look like Marilyn Monroe as a housewife,
standing in my yard with my dress billowing around me.
My husband sees me with his eyes shut.
Hands open.
The hours I have given him clump between his fingers like cat litter
I will wash them with aloe.
I will dry them in silence.
Our daughter has been sequestered with the sequins
and she has sewn a shining dress.
See her straddle the breeze.
She learns from me.
Eleven mirrors watch videos of sky.
Clouds breed above the enemy.
What sleeps inside my teeth
that my hunger has become so fragile?
My face is a tapestry unfinished.
Below the town a garden planted by boys
grows velvet tumbleweed.
Diary of Radiation
The color of water, I race slowly and win.
See how I die without fanfare,
taking millions with me?
I adore the breeze.
I covet the air but do not need it.
At the crest of unbelief my candle bobs along
on an inflatable saucer.
Simmering air
warms the neighborhood.
Watch the eloquent vacuums roaming their halls.
The roofs are in love with the trees.
This is where lightning dies its death
no faster than you’ll die yours.
Miniature Moon 