Peace follows my soul –
Peace to hunters,
To prey,
To pray.
You are clear as water,
Eating azure threads of infinity .
Which flowers are nursing men along the river?
You do not know the catastrophe you will bring,
A spring thaw drowning everything under daylight .
The silence crouches behind my personality,
Stalking it.
Silence is a ghoulish hunter,
Seeking to drink the stark clarity of my water
And eat the bright blue impulses of my
Ever wakeful mind.
What stupid flowers grow by the river,
Not knowing a flood is coming to submerge them
In a chocolate brown night.
But if they knew,
What would the difference be?
I slow down,
Cover my ears.
This is my Imperfect hour,
Negative ideas multiply with negative space.
My crotch is steam.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember that I am a child in this world,
Trafficking in pain.
Am I your neighbor?
Will you scorn me?
This is not my finest hour,
Thoughts encrusted with sin
Crotch raging and wet.
Hold me, Madonna.
Remember I am a child in this vast ageless world,
Writhing in ecstatic agony.
What did you feel on your wedding night,
When you realized the black terror of earning your
Scandalized neighbors?
Canisters of cold line my pantry shelves.
I nourish my soul with frigid ozone,
My stomach boiling and desperate for relief.
Why this internal inferno?
Can I learn to be a tepid meadow of placid terrain?
The floor is a guess,
is clear like water.
It is raining June in my hair.
My clothes are brimming with butterflies.
I am a sour after note to their beauty.
I was born to rise
to shatter sky.
Instead a jealous math
embalming me
Fills me with mud.
Enormous.
Silent.
Private.
My face is full of wonder.
My eyes do not have any fun.
Without the sky we can get power lines?
I play to win.
I lose again and again.
Touch me to notice messages buried in my skin.
Cruddy smells flake off the house and I know I shouldn’t be here.
No one has in faithless year after faithless year.
Knock it off.
I see you filching my backup plans from my purse.
God I wear blue well.
My soul is transparent like the cleanest lake.
I am without my numbers and shapes,
sewn from cotton fields.
I’m a doll you can love, hate, dissipate
Wrap me in rain,
give me cool comfort like the
swirling of air from a fan over my legs
at bedtime so noxious and sanctimonious.
What strange aliens wait in the field behind the house,
gaudy in their multitudinous space ships?
Give me sweet succor and lay me down
in the pumpkin patch.
Let me grow vines to root me in place.
There is no sense in running.
And when the aliens come,
let their teeth already be sharpened,
their hands quick.
Miniature Moon 