Tonight, there are no stars to speak of.
The violet swirls of light sliding into
low set harbors, the tunneling sky
will not reconcile our differences.
Black waves curling in like oiled ropes
I describe to you my dark house,
a metaphor for childhood;
crumbling ruins forgotten,
diseased and aging .
I married for love, for children,
for ammunition. Some houses
are better left un-opened; a new life
is a fragile form of vengeance.
Today, I prefer alone. When I close
my eyes, my visions are of trees, of wolves,
of falcons hunting late into the evening,
horses grazing lazy on the hills, a sea
rolling under black cliffs
poem
"The Blue Mosque"
My prayers are strangers to these skies
And rise upon the poisoned air
Like burning paper. Scanty sleep
Informs the word that darkens.
Things will plummet from these skies
With cries upon the poisoned air
And every step advanced, risks slip
And every word born broken.
Midwest Observations
Innocence is a canning jar
filled with fireflies
that are released
in the morning.
If goats eat garlic weed
their milk is soured;
feed them sweet
grain.
When salt is applied,
skinned frog legs
twitch.
A horse is like underwear.
It should be worn by
the same person.
The world is not flat;
neither is the Midwest
entirely.
Never tease a bull
or a brother who is taller
than you are.
Respect nature, admire
its beauty, but never refuse
to eat it for dinner.
filled with fireflies
that are released
in the morning.
If goats eat garlic weed
their milk is soured;
feed them sweet
grain.
When salt is applied,
skinned frog legs
twitch.
A horse is like underwear.
It should be worn by
the same person.
The world is not flat;
neither is the Midwest
entirely.
Never tease a bull
or a brother who is taller
than you are.
Respect nature, admire
its beauty, but never refuse
to eat it for dinner.
Moth at My Door
Knocks twice. The first,
to announce arrival,
the second, to listen
for an answer.
Passage involves
waiting in the shadows
until the light inside
comes looking;
you cannot
drag it out
with weeping
or the knowledge
of your years-
the sweetest child
has died in darkness
thinking how
to bend its ear.
And so we try
a language
like a question,
a body like
a secret wing,
a fire built
by lovers
who rush
into the flame.
to announce arrival,
the second, to listen
for an answer.
Passage involves
waiting in the shadows
until the light inside
comes looking;
you cannot
drag it out
with weeping
or the knowledge
of your years-
the sweetest child
has died in darkness
thinking how
to bend its ear.
And so we try
a language
like a question,
a body like
a secret wing,
a fire built
by lovers
who rush
into the flame.
Beautiful Kitchen
Our contemporary kitchen rests in shameful mud. The shame is sublime, like a trance lightning fitted to the window with the blue sky cushioning our love of dormers. A slight possible duct of rainwater tells us of indications, and the ditch will overflow with the results. We'll need something as summer softens and autumn turns us. Our kitchen will let grandeur speak for itself. Delicious ideas of repose will end sentences, dozing will become required. Too much paint on the dormer will be proclaimed as radical and a draft in our ideas. Pressure will work the sentence, naps will lighten the moment, dreams will congest in a picture. Here, the picture wants your name. It's about time.
As The World Turned
5:30 a.m., the traffic man said they found a body
on the shoulder of the 605. Car lights wound back up
through the canyon pass like an angry boa constrictor
whose skin was on fire.
The CEO of a toy manufacturer committed
suicide last night; his company painted toys
with toxic levels of lead. A pediatric neurologist
described ensuing loss of appetite, tremors, coma
while holding up figurines of mickey mouse and barbie.
I rolled over to watch the dog's chest rise and fall
at the end of the bed, his neck hair glowing in the t.v's shine
like an alien strobe from a friendly ufo that had settled on
a crude and violent planet. We found the remote
and turned the world off.
on the shoulder of the 605. Car lights wound back up
through the canyon pass like an angry boa constrictor
whose skin was on fire.
The CEO of a toy manufacturer committed
suicide last night; his company painted toys
with toxic levels of lead. A pediatric neurologist
described ensuing loss of appetite, tremors, coma
while holding up figurines of mickey mouse and barbie.
I rolled over to watch the dog's chest rise and fall
at the end of the bed, his neck hair glowing in the t.v's shine
like an alien strobe from a friendly ufo that had settled on
a crude and violent planet. We found the remote
and turned the world off.
Thripartate Thricycle
Phenol-Oedipal-logistic: 1) the study of a chemical compound that has one or more hydroxyl groups attached to a benzene ring; a poisonous caustic crystalline compound obtained from coal, wood tar, or benzene, used in the manufacture of resins, dyes, and pharmaceuticals and as an antiseptic and disinfectant. 2) Mommy-daddy-me-mommy-etc. anon and so froth.
Renal-Mailer: 1) Having a penknife colonoscopy performed by Adele Morales Lip-reading Harlot’s Ghost whilst under a local anaesthesia. 2) Ibid.
A-Stick-In-The-I-Eye: Ibid; see Phenol… (Barbie-Shalom)
Everything comes in threes; even threes.
Renal-Mailer: 1) Having a penknife colonoscopy performed by Adele Morales Lip-reading Harlot’s Ghost whilst under a local anaesthesia. 2) Ibid.
A-Stick-In-The-I-Eye: Ibid; see Phenol… (Barbie-Shalom)
Everything comes in threes; even threes.
When You Wake Up
She liked colour. Maybe because she knew
colour was life and the absence of it could only be
the other. Like the word vacancy; if filled,
it disappears.
She often thought of miracles. As if
she could conjure one up simply by overcoming
a tragic moment with a deep sense of bliss. Later,
she realized, this act in itself, was the miracle.
Sometimes at night, she would hold out her hands
in the moonlight so her skin would glow like lantern paper
and little grey moths would crawl across her fingers
until the wind whisked them away.
No one knew her, really. She liked it that way.
Like a dream you can't remember when you wake up
or a feeling that makes you smile
but you can't remember why.
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