As daylight dreams reach
for dark
under a K-light sky
so must the
world return requited,
kited,
new ,
no one knew but me and you
I will not beg of thee in XYZ
chromosomal hormonal after-tonal

A giant jelly fish ate "To Wong foo with love"
a bit of it's electric lightening flash turned
my skin to glass,
molted down Queen cream
in crock-odor-ium,
it may be a word, it may not,
it maybe your Marshland smile.

I'm going to emerge orthodontia
in crystalline wings and when I do
I hope it won't blind you
like your heart
like your heart forgot
how to pronounce my name and
sunlight forgot to wash the sand
into bleached wood
a drift
from where I cry away
from that small dark part of me
that resembles photosynthesis
in green or gold memories

..of i'll never leave you
even when my tongue has become
a pin cushion for all the things
That get stuck to it
in the dark shifting of
under garments and sleepless
every things
that crawl the endless length of me
as a nightly ritual
of sacred dance.

She's a mystery
our little vase.
just sitting out there
in the cosmos
all alone
with her hour glass
figure. It's time
to wake up and don
the 'morrow...
oh, such a powerful


p
r
  e
   t
    t
     y
       new dress!

Einstein visits my bathroom
walls spouting bright ideas
about (ILL)uminati nation,
and it's coffee drinking
friends.

I'm sorry sir, but I don't subscribe,
I sleep very well, thank you.

I've lost half a front tooth to winter
already,  tripped over laundry
baskets and almost broke my neck doing
the limbo...and the makers of Beano can't
keep enough stocked on the shelf,
oh no,
not I.

It's crazy how clumsy
i'm becoming of late.
tumbling into shell,
little green pistachios
tender meat
fledgling tuition's
not this sweet thing,
I'm not buying what you
ladies and gents want to sell,
I'll keep my wings,
my hearts and flowers,
no disrespect,
Thank you just the same.
I was never into Halloween
or the things that bump
into the night, or cackle
like mad hens in my half wake.

I prefer love, not the half light,
not the lime stand where Mr. Todd and I
have had quite the conversation yesterday,
who does he think he's fooling?

Ill advised, I might say, to play with
such things, such as the sweetness of
the naive flock, let's just say I've
been properly introduced
and my eyes are open,
and leave it there
on the ***** step
with the musical instruments
and the rainbows, I prefer
to be colorless like the page.

No trade darlings, nice try,
but I love you...
and anytime you'd like
to take a ride into the outfield
and watch the ballgame,
from the sidelines of a
couple of overheated stars,
remember, beautiful rays am I,
in which you may trust,
an accidental supernova,
see how the star's tracks
are blinking, winking, and
tapping out love letters
in Morris code...all for you
baby, all for you,
I intend to blow this pop stand
walk off  into the fog, whole,
in love, with or without you.

A quiet light
slips across the stage
pencil drawings
flipped formed into
anorexic glass
stick figure thin
stacked mimes
only the barking
dogs and whales
could hear it explode
into sonar boom.

My life,
has become a debut
of silent animation
I'm the first of Emile Cohl's
funny faces,
my heart,
a voice whispered
death threat
a French caricaturist
largely forgotten
incoherent
love contortionist
pulsations
of the retina
rapid eye movement
fantasmagorie,
complex shifting sand dollars
and rabid flower images,
they never forget a pretty face.
Sword-fighting fish mouths
gaped like cannons
dancing petals wind borne
missing
milk carton illusions
memories drum
tight like elephants
stuffed into houses
avant-garde
artistic movement
curdling my eyes by hydropathy
baths of incoherent apathy
falling between my brows
like Chinese water torture.

Pictures that are missing you,
that were always missing me
and me, missing the music
of laughter, that love
that turned numb
the earth thumbed green.

Coup Stick
A Poem by Corset


When I was a small child
I would often try to walk
silently like the warriors
it never failed that a twig
would snap beneath my feet
but I am a grown woman now.

Here, where the earth and blade
are dry, the wind spirit
can hear my footsteps,
this is not a good place
to hunt the wind and I
am not afraid to die.

Privacy fences block my view
of the white tipped mountain,
tumbleweeds whisper the names
of the fallen
and there are no buffalo
to fall beside the iron horse,
and the only tracks to follow
belong to the old railroad.

The brave will ride the red path
his pouch tied to the mane
of his pony, his whistle plays
the shrill of the great hunt
a vengeance to collect in scalp,
spirit claws sewn onto
his chest, blessed,
he is dressed for death.

It is a good day to die.

Paint us like the white
spotted leopard so that
the arrows fly in reverse.

Fierce in verse
like Crazy Horse;
who took the evil man's
thirst and with it,
Cut Custer in two,
I will not be halved.

Listen now, as I sing the
song of drums
no longer a twin of mine
as to the number whispered
into the dream.

I'll not be controlled.

On the green grass,
one can move silently
and be as mighty as
a pack of wolves,
I am as unconcerned
as a November cub,
yowling at the moon.

Sticks and stones,
words can not harm us.

I will not be silenced.


Choose the path wisely,
walk softly, carry a
big feathered coup,
for a war of dishonor.

The darkness can not effect
a sacred blaze, but daylight
can most certainly invade
the greedy, hungry night.

Dream Catcher

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Did I imagine you?
where dreams of you
flood the eyes
of a winter incarnate,

only the figment of bliss
borne of buffalo magic,

lead me to this
song of the feathers.

I did not seek it out

instead it lay me beside
a steady stream
fed by the ****** howl
of ancestors.

We are the calling of ghosts
embraced in the pouring
of seasons.


Heart of the mighty bear,
kisses of white doves
where the wild mustangs
run to greet the horizon,
pine knot,
whine not,
braid inside my hair
your lair is a
dream catcher;
catch me...

i'm falling,
wind blown

in the silence
of drums

am I to walk alone?

I have been swimming in this
hot, bitter ocean
for way too long
And now it is time
for me to taste a new kind of salt
                         one not of tears
but one of unlocked secrets
from deep within the earth
mineral projections
of rooted reflections
             myriad rhythms
that cause us to dance
and weave in primal wildness
beneath the stars
as fires of night gleam gently
and the magic of unspoken words
lies moist upon our tongues.
Now, let the fiesta
of new tastes
begin
from the lips
and work its way down
Let there be a a celebration
of new thoughts
and electrified delights
to awaken the senses
and ignite the mind
as the textures of ancient runes
grace our skin
Let the discoveries
of hidden wisdoms
come to the fore,
wild roots that pour out
             from the voices of within
Slowly, I rise from that saliferous
liquid, taking in the new flavors….
                not only the sweet –
although that is
for your loving eyes
                   not only the pungent-
which rings of the deeper layers unseen
but also the bitter
as a reminder of the days
when I tasted my tears,
not realizing that
even salt has the
velvet sweetness
of victory