You spoke to me with your
voice like Mia Farrow’s and
your eyes not at all like
trampolines. A tar twig
bobbed between your lips;
you spoke of self-destruction
and smoked your commas
and semi-colons. You asked me
questions with the least amount
of answers and the most amount
of space, like a widow’s home
adorned in compromise. The six
o’clock sun sprawled through.
You said I reminded you of how
we’re always treating people like
fractions, simplifying where we
should be unfurling equations.
I saw the dawn illuminate your
hiccups and your hesitations. I
took a kiss; I thought there’s
nothing more fleeting than
moments like this, but at least
you can’t run quickly with a
heart so full.

My Atlas does not wince
nor does he cower; he hauls
his burden, self-forgotten.
Hour by day, my unwav’ring
tower, with purpling shoulders
and crackling skin, within him
a lambent glow glimpsing through
the faults. My Titan is stout and alt;
I rest in his shadow which feasts on
fearsome things. Some simply hiss
“BEAST,” as he quakes by, but his
eyes are on the sun and his ears are
in the sky, his burden perched upon
his sturdy shoulders high.

I am a snake
in a skirt with
frills; my body
bends under
smiles and over
sunsets, ensnaring
whole bars of
Beethoven’s
symphonies.
Ruby pellets
and pearls
embossed in
my perishable flesh.
I unhinge my jaw
to make a meal of
merriment and as it
settles in me I’ll
kiss you with venom
snoozing beneath
my tongue.

thorns poke through
my palms. all belongs
to gravity but not yet my rose,
resting on my undaunted fist.
it will wither unceremoniously and
i will have only holes in my hands.

When she shows you her teeth
it is an invitation to pry them
from the cob; arid gums, each
tooth a cork plucked, warm pops,
air settling in to make good her
promise of decay;

no good – vitality never
rustled her bed there.

I am made of mountains
which do not merit their trek,
slumps pregnant with swamps
bubbling ‘round souring slop,
flatlands so parched they cough
as the pustules burst.

I am petals so withered
they perpetually sulk,
shunning the warmth
so to sigh in the soil.

I am blackened fruits
weighing down weary trees.  

The flies do not flock to me.

I oppose
gravity;
you are
the string
which
stays me.

You are
wrapped
around my
ankle and
I’m breathing in
star specks.

And when
I come down
it is only
because your
lips are
so close to
the ground.

Make shapes for me –
abandon all proclivities
neat and sterile; spill
under me.  I will still
your peril. Fastenings
will not keep you bound,
so bolt! Do not stay with
me, amid my bloating
awe, while your bedlam
blooms and daybreak
looms. Sweet perfumes.
Consumption in the
dark while others only
dream. You will never
fill me but we’ll again
put out the ladder
tomorrow.

In my cabinet
no one comes
tapping. The
slap of my
thoughts
like the strike
of steel drums
on the walls.
No one calls.
My breath
booming; a
bass string
plucked in
panic. The
air around
opaque as
top-shelf
ignorance.
With me weep
my shoulders,
stooped, my
hands, curled
and catching
the precipitation
of grief.  No
mewls, no
moans – my
voice, too, has
left me heaving
and weeping to
the sounds of
my seclusion.

My legs will take me through;
never mind shrubs and jagged pavement,
my legs will take me through.

Precipitation looms – my heart striking
like a pellet in a pinball machine – and
it pours. Sprouting from the sky, my
little termites splash into the soil.

My legs will take me through.

I can and I have and I will,
my pulse insists; living puddles
splatter beneath my feet, my
insuppressible stride.

Inadequacy spoke and I replied:

*My legs will take me through.

Slow chew;
swallow, you
insatiable shirk.
You love to lurk in
shadowy turns;
show your camel’s
jaw, disrespectful
teeth which hash
and gnaw. While
other mouths stiffen
and gape you can
take another chunk
from integrity’s nape;
slow chew and swallow,
you insatiable shirk.

My trombone binoculars bend
right back into my head and I
can see the growth in all that
which I’ve fed – still no trees,
unappeased vines bending the
spines so that they too bow in
need. Apples san seed. No
lending from the skies.  Not a
desert but a safely stagnant
demise.