krissy-schillerWhisper

American
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BlowAs Captain Jack kisses of the last roach / Lavender's in the boathouse window shouting that she's grown wings that she's gonna fly / over Old Casey's boat above the painted lake past where the music surrounds
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Bunk BedsCaution, lost in the motion, / The tender lapse of green sea waves / The scent that has become you,
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Spanish RanchThe stench of battery acid in the morning / The slippery lubricant of littered snakeskin on the floor / Trash that once found liberation, salvation in the motion of its use
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Of Star Charts and Boot Prints on the LakeNo force of nature, no divination of the corners / Nor the tea leaves, spread out loosely / Conveying chaos in their spiral form
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Cry WolfSo you were / naïve / So much of a wolf was
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TexYou, / And the smell that soaks your fingers / Relative of plastic
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Trailer ParkOn the seventh day I met the devil / All alone on your bedside table / Without his flames and yellow tape
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Spring FeverLet's fly to France, let's swim to Spain / Would could row a boat, we could hop a train / I could rob a bank, you could steal a car
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The Basement Poet"When you blew / When you blew out the smoke, / You were something beyond you
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UntitledI've come to measure time and space by your absence / A series of days to distract me from our meeting place / Weeks to separate memory from smell, blue sage and pine
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