I. Going Bird Mad
Waxing, on and on, a carmine pool pearling in the sun
coughing, lack of sky, green and saturnine, Olympus Mons
in the shadow of Mrs.
See the coming wind, the storm about to breach
petrified forests catching and suffocating on that beach.
Umbrellas unfurl like toadstools, craning up to space
past the soggy, airy, nothing is forever place.
It is all about the brutal blue, clad in a power
maybe only Picasso knew.
Scour, sky, fit things, fight, or fit to it right, flight.
Either or, the storm is passing sore, see it bleed and bite
and it will be let to echo in the stratus
err it err be o'er
II. Rum Currants
If you had warned me
of the way our breath would mingle,
lively, sprite and free
back when I was still single...
against the grain you disappear
one impression begets the new,
two then coincide, collide, suffuse.
my fingers leave and touch and hush
the place you left,
an absence burr shaped, filling up with new
fantastic flora, the world rumbles
in displeasure, discomfort.
but I let it. the Old World is old.
it is pine tar on the wind.
I starve myself, I gorge, I purge in scattered song.
the New World is read aloud,
the place you left, bit by bit
star by earnest star
it comes along.
holds out, a piece of cake.
Clean slice, clear; see through to the plate
eat up, ice, cold.
You drink your tea, simmering, yap a spell
then carry away, the night in your belly.
V. Telepathic Postage
Honest letters spill from broken text
crimped fingers, bones jutting, light the whole body
on fire Sympathetic, Electric, the just dusty
confidence, the catty-wumpus cool hand to cheek
novelty of it.
If you read a word or if you dared believe.
If you were pure and fine and fond.
VI. Conflict Escalates
So much light untopples the un-set order,
and the hegemony of the dark
one after another
how this muse agressess.
VII. The Hand that Feeds
the hand leads me
with its faint traceries of blue veins,
its sketching map of spiderwebbings
it is graphing in zero gravity,
everything hanging upside down like Dracula
the tears of his ever emotional and robust brides,
form little mirrors upon the shapeless floor,
draining away nothing, reflecting nothing,
not even this hand, lingering, touching,
suddenly striking through.
VIII. The Family Stone
gathering, together, the edifice of
Ogres, grinding, grueling, sleeping under bridges.
comparing it to: their mothers, the hags, the baba,
all manners, craft, crashing waves of wisdom
against sweet-toothed appetite.
sleeping in ponds, in rings of fire, in gray pudding-scapes,
Chicken-legs scritching out an anxious yard.
Caves that howl, caves with throat-warm walls,
the hill itself.
You could kill them by the pile, these old stories
burn the pages or route the spoken words
of things that wait as tough as diamonds
wise as wind-swept rock-face
to eat us, to teach us,
but you would only ever fill the graves
in empty patient coffins,
yawning, greedy, mouths of clay and earth
chanting crooked songs.
IX. Thin to Bursting
Hold me dear, keep me, in this thin, thin place.
The veneer of space is peeling back, eldritch eyes
mistook for stars, everlong, now blink and bob and
bring up teeth to test, shark-bite sized experiments,
out of satisfaction, out of certainty.
The summer halo glazes, unreal, the walls are thin,
paper thin and warm, and baking in the sun.
This year I will sweat away to nothing.
X. Hell Calls
The dark decision, demon swift
through bloody, bifurcated mirrors.
Alternate and near, look out the window, it rains.
temporal, tragic, ruined lives, ruined everything.
One end after another, presents, disconnects.