There's a reason why
we call it being
broke.
being poor is like
running out of time
every few minutes
over and over
and the looming tasks
you cannot complete
are ever present
and threatening to
to
     pp
          le
over your family

My hair stands on end
and I tip over, spilling
into the sky and down
into the dirt.
The stage explodes inwards
in colorful bursts,
black and white bears
strumming and growling
in a cymbal crash
a thunder clap
a tap-dancing
madhouse jamboree.
The threatening noise
reverberateraterating
through the hills
and climbs up inside
until I fly out of my body
straight up into the heavens
with a sigh,
a soul release.

Walk softly, she said, softly
on hearts around you.
Your power crushes, your love
is unseemly, your tender eyes
behind yellow teeth and make-up,
your gifts are petulance,
and your own heart,
your own quiet beating drum,
passion-beat ceased long before
under the heavy tread,
the power protecting, the dreamy love,
the hard eyes behind white teeth, gnashing
the giving of precious priceless gifts,
not given freely,
and the loud thrumming incessant hum.
The masculine muscle, throbbing,
beating proudly, smugly,
handsomely sometimes.
It weeps for you and itself,
Carved of it's own destruction,
as it tends to be.

Her lips were red
red like passion
red like plastic cups in dark rooms
red like tiny pills and flushed cheeks
red like the soft folds of rose petals,
freshly bloomed and cut.
red like sirens flashing, blinking fast,
hot white fire burning.
red like the glow of coals, after.
red like ink, signed papers,
red wet tongues lying.
red, at last, like a gaping wound,
in an open wide,
red beating heart.

Crisp and soft, the grass meets my
naked feet
sliding in calm between toes curling
in the damp earth beneath.
My ******* feel heavy, pulling me down
to meet my mother.
She smells strongly of sod,
like mountains.
I will sink into her slowly,
It takes a whole lifetime.
And she will rebirth me,
and not even notice.