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.
Tag: writing
The Sky Is
The Sky Is
Enormous.
Silent.
Private.
Anorexia
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.
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?
The Scent Radius of a Rose as a Unit of Measurement
The scent radius of a rose as a unit of measurement.
My smile weighs too much,
crumbles off my face.
I’m sick of fried hair and unstoppable worry.
My secrets hate me and my eyes betray me.
On the beaches are boxes of life
watching the great red shipping containers float on the horizon.
Simply put
I have no allies I have not bought
And I drink old snow.
Disdain
You are a systemic failure,
a weed I will use to make a poultice for my feet.
My jaw is slack and exhausted from talking to God,
my ears reverent from listening.
Sunlight colonizes the window glass,
makes cities we can see but not feel.
Innocence Threatened – Xhosa/Afrikaans Project
Poem in the original English, followed by translations to Xhosa and Afrikaans and back.
Blue light chases me.
My soul is cold,
spirit still dreaming.
In a meadow I roll down the hillocks
over and over,
my little sear suckered skirt frilly
over my still narrow hips.
A movie an angel might wish to watch
or a pederast.
Translation and edit:
In the meadow I roll down the hillock
my short skirt ruffled.
On my stretching back now,
a starlet with one hell of a fan.
Submission 2
The sun salivates.
What I know about the submission?
I’m all hardware and no market.
Art to me:
My rib, you know the war.
What nation can be fed by my fall?
Submission
A salivating sun
licks a sailboat lost from harbor.
What do I know about submission?
All steel and no magnolia.
Eloquence runs from me.
From my rib you can take a war.
What nation can be fed by my falling eyelashes
that this fluid angel warps around my form?
The Way Things Are
Your neighbors know you better than you do.
My hat is me-
black and white and full of
Hamptons zeitgeist.
On an irritable coastal crag a gaggle of
children considers drowning while their mothers read an Amish romance,
while their fathers surf with mirrors.
Miniature Moon 