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Moist Gills
Green beds wetly stung with crickets laced with last year's forgotten seeds.
It's nearly autumn again.
Your calyx cup sewn shut out season rips its stitches.
The rain hunters run to.
A swollen mushroom grows there erect on death.
Letter To A Muse, March 1st, 2011
Darling, your birth canal Is also your grave Where the winter sun is eaten And the earth coughs out a moon.
Your slender bones Draped in placental rose Have done with one rambling, Prepare for the next.
Pretty dead child Of packed daffodils and ivy unfreed You may, in fact, be all I need To remember myself.
Or maybe a wife With a mouth for fire. Anyway, you are a corpse Growing new skin in a rotting box.
I long to part your femurs, Duck through a bare arbor arch Scream and cry back Into the days of open windows.
There beneath a skirt of roots Words that escaped me Drowse naked, Ready to be reclaimed.
“If you ever feel neglected”
Tonights in November populus with stars only glimpsed in the mind mental snow and the warm breath of memory so tonight, on this one with recorded music leaving the speakers monitor glow and a singer incoherent but emotive evoking I tried to become your priest again with your body bundled in confessional wood so the piano so I could love you so many the wasted weeks burning to thaw this foolish hobo’s hand
Icarus Immortal
Death put his hat back on I shipped him away
I sent him to the Sahara He wears a havelock I cover my neck
I have made him more foreign And less legion
Let strangers pop their bullets To explode his porcelain head I am in this war now I am burning every single shred Of white cloth in a hundred leagues
Especially his
He will lose his wretched hourglass In the infinite grains of Time Forget me like a lover
Because I will keep on turning it upside down
Until my hand resembles a propeller And I land at Kittyhawk Wax wings intact
Her Coup
In slips her cadre of heavenly killers: Foot, calf, and naked thigh. My soft assassin's shadowfold Fills the nightly sky. And so I lick my finisher. Parting clouds sigh overhead. My body bleeds its sanest silver When gibbous moons come full to bed.
Gecko Doll
The days fluidly stutter by, The summer creeps to, night on night.
You web your bed From headboard to footboard.
But your body's unblackened, no firefly. No fire wire, burning telephone cord.
Not even a hot cell, Just lonely hell.
Crush your chest to a breathing boulder. Change your flesh before it gets colder.
Feral Urge
Do you love me? The longest claw of a wounding paw, renting you, selling you into slavery, is it me? Tightening your back and covering legs that long to kick free? Kick me to the edge of your precipice, I am snaggletoothed giving permissions to do what you deem unseemly. Morals? They are the bright stripes dividing the shadows that cage me. Are you hungry? I could eat the whole rose. You can confess to your lonely skin but O, my lovely I have always known.
Dreams Of The Mile-High Club
The ant taps the aphid with hard, gentle antennae.
The robot in the box runs to fetch my thin metal bubble of dew.
Is it sad or encouraging to believe that every worker has wings in the closet
when only the royals are copulating at 30,000 feet?
