I feel bad for the Moon who burns my skin
It wasn’t her fault, but rather her lover’s
Skin once milky white -
Now swathed in blistery red
What was once a warm embrace -
Now needles in my veins
That deceiving Sun
Who once kissed my flesh into a blush
Has abandoned me to the agony of nightfall
And here I sway among a sea of grass caked in Summer's tears
Shaking my fist angrily at the Moon
Whose glow neither harms nor heals me -
But reveals her lover's trickery

Oh please, not sunshine and 'here I sit" blank-page laments
Season-change ballads and idle-moment thoughts.
My muses are all sedentary and lethargic,
Only speaking up to demand another grape
Fed from dangling fingers.

Sure, the sun is streaming nicely in the window
And a reluctant spring has given way
To summer-like days, as I sit and ponder.
But the tropes and exclaims of 'excelsior!'
Aren't going to cut it this time.

Gold-leafed chaises longues and silver goblets
Are stacked haphazardly on the sidewalk
A pile of plus-sized togae thrown into the mix
A cardboard box of minstrels' greatest hits vinyl too.
The bums are sent packing
And my poem is concluded.

they are beautiful nectar collectors,
they're busily pollinating,
viciously cooperating,
and skillfully propagating from petal to petal.
as they flitter and hover,
acting as ambrosia vessels.
from marigolds to foxgloves,
and even to blooming nettles.

i would like
to take
a shuttle to the moon:
a dear rocket through the blue!

as i cling to the wing
of the rickety thing,
i would sing a little
faring daring tune

if the moon were bright,
brighter than night,
and made of the stuff
that we covet and lust,

i would like
to take home
a piece of it for you.

There was a cloud in the sky.
I looked up and it was a heart.
It beat with the wind and took its time to grow.

You sleep in me. Silent in your dreams.
We dream together of journeys through waters and coffees and stars.
The curve of your nose is like half of a heart.

My nose isn't the right shape.

But you dream on. Oblivious and aware.
I say the words and they echo.
The vibrations fall as I do.
And you catch me. I am light enough.
To fall like a devil into the arms of an angel.

We look back down and into each other's eyes.
The cloud is no longer there.

So cliche to say
"your whole future is before you"
when we are rooted
in the soul of your childhood.
Better we should wish you
safe journey, safe home
whenever you might
find your way back.

a poet who can't write
a dog that won't bite
a hill that can't climb
a clock with no time

an ist with no ism
undead but not risen
an endless schism
of self sedition and indecision

a two headed coin
a completely missed point
a light in the void
a limbless joint

Bo-Peep with no sheep
the shallowest deep
an unsailed sea
of dreamless sleep

i love my dandelion daydreams
that grow on unmarked graves

i love dancing with their
seedsprout whiteheads in a
river of me

i love to toy with my
dandelion (daydreams) and

pretend that each one
is the hand of a corpse
taking its final

(maggot rodden)
grip of fresh air.