I release them. Fledglings
pushed from the nest,
thin-skinned and chirping.
Constantly on guard for
the cat and coyote.

Skipping from tall grass
to bush until there is
enough strength to fly
and feed alone.

They build their
nests in hidden hearts
of those who discover them
and sing sweet songs
to the ears that hear.

If I could slice
a still moment
   out of moving life,
I would carve
an ample piece of
   that one time
and place it under
a crystal dome—
   gazing daily
at its deliciousness
until temptation
   finally cracks me
and I burst it
from its detention,
   devouring it
like a brown bear
at a honey tree.

Megatons and major-broads
and Cincinnati firing squads
lined the street
with punctured feet
and shot the skies with mushroom eyes.
Art and Dan and some dead man
hid inside a garbage can, while
gold platoons
with silver spoons
lowered down the has-been town.
The grill and bars and several cars
burned and sparked and crashed and parked
as life, so frail, went straight to hell
wrapped up in the ceiling war.

The hurdy-gurdy man’s monkey
snatched your only dollar
and you clapped

then turned on Thomas Avenue,
and scaled the front steps of
the brownstone.

Your lonely third floor silhouette
pouring a *** of tea
in one cup.

Lamp darkened like a stranger’s hope—
corroded fire escape
leading up.

You are the fourth nail
dull, crooked and corroded
piercing the watery heart
pushing through the spine
splintering the wood
delivering the poison like
a Golgotha adder
dancing on the stone and
kicking the crown
Your rituals are performed in
robes dragging the ground
The work of your hands betray
you like a ***** bride
The children starve while
you eat the lamb
and lie with the calf
I never knew you.

You, traced in red,
     thick paint outline
grasping for her,
     a specter in
       the emerald vapor.
     What is that look—
          pleasure or
     grey death?

Mirror sisters
in ashen gowns
hanging loosely over
translucent skin.

A bond deeper than
     skeleton— love
     and hate passed
    through haunted
          touch.

The old shoestring
     Ragged and frayed;
Age showing in each
     Interwoven thread
Finally, after years
     Of stress,
     Snapping into a
     Short, useless
     Stub.

While you are sleeping
     they are sharpening the guillotine
Loading their guns
Sheathing knives at their thighs

Tip toeing while you snore
To tie the noose
And expose the poison
Planting mines where your feet will step

During your dream state
They are writing the nightmares

You have no idea
          what awaits.

Before the rains
I live in your skeleton
beneath the crust
of your unholy
mask
I breathe
in the dust
of powdered
heartbeats under
your chipped
*******
The spit from
your lips like
lava sears my
throat
I go inside you
as an serpent
enters the
desert sand
parched ******
blowing through
your
box
of
sticks

****** at midnight.
  Warm, crimson light
    against the
      Oldsmobile’s
        cold, steel skin.

Undercover crickets in
  a foggy 1962 field,
    screeching
      like white noise
        in the black gloaming.

Haggard men hoarding
  hate like rare coins
    pause for gasoline
      then churn dust
        from bald tires.

Tomorrow at the bank,
  the agency, the classroom,
    the factory, the church
      and the precinct
        they will call
          Jesus a friend.

The nail that doesn’t
want to be struck,
folds at the impact
then is straightened
and hit again,
but it twists and bends
into its own shape;
pounded and pressed
deep into the plank.

Metallic ocean waves
will not overwhelm me in
this prevailing moment,

nor shaven-headed dude
with raven hound
gallivanting

on verdure plaza,
eagerly visualizing
**** on the verge,

under this devil sun.
Vociferous men
devoid of socks

converse about
investments in
rental living quarters

while evading a glance
at my overly-long
vert straw

properly delivering
my shivery
iced beverage.

i can see you
    i can't
as you stand
        there
not in front of me

where are you
         now while i
   caress your
body days away
  and kiss
the distance
   on your lips—
come
          go
             st  ay
          a rriv e

               dePar t
    hold on to
      my hand
    tightly

        centuries
     in the
          future

He was born
desert frost,
a Kansas avalanche;
an impossibility
in her
life
posing as savage
fantasy
they both carried
under their
skin
like a virus fiend.

When she carved the pumpkin
her hands sunk deep into it
and, as she scooped the flesh,
she thought of the ******–
how the face went soft,
yet wide-eyed and open-mouthed,
the stringy seeds spilling out
onto her dress
as she twisted the knife in;
his body thrusting forward
not expecting the delivery
or that she would fight back
and now a pile of damp pulp
on the old, wooden floor was
all that remained to be cleared
before the celebration–
her steady hand putting
flame to the candle
and placing the toothy head
in front of the house
as a beacon to those who
would come knocking
that night.

Each crease in flesh
speaks with the tongue
of an ancient shaman.

Crystalline vision
born of spirit,
warm mescaline and
a fiery torch.

The serpent rises
and in its wake
consumes my youth.
I have left behind
all of my blood
but the bravest.

The next evening,
cicadas gave testimony
in their lazy accent—
your Judas kiss
from the dugout
next to Barb’s Burgers
under the periwinkle moon.

That empty ball field,
a barren beach.
Wind blowing red clay waves
over third base.

The summer air
weaving your breaths
into a scarf of deceit,
your hair in pony tail
until he slid
the band off,
releasing the bundle
of buff sea grass
down your neck.
The kiss, a shy,
soft shell crab
burying itself in the deep.

You’ll say “we need
to talk” but no.
My heart will drown
with the stars
you watched fall
into the black ocean
of last night’s sky
with him.

The scant, gray room
Where you forced me to live
Me like a fox
Silken, amber fur
With hungry teeth

I imagined escaping you
That cool, spring morning
In our Swiss train station
Your heels knocking in echo
And I afraid of the machinery

You asked, “Why do we do
The things we do?”
And I kissed your nose
Like tasting a hen

I gave my ticket to a boy
And he boarded without bags
My gloves felt too tight
Black, like your hair
And smelling of blood