the moon must be crazy
in the way that it glows
when it does,

for only ***** things
happen at night,

at twilight is when the
hungry men prowl
for the ripened darlings
in their lacy things -

when the fingers of
the raving ones
are stickiest in their
rabid breaths,

in the time that
wallows in the dust
of the stars' dusky debut
is where the shadows
are livened with
all things creeping
and perilous,

though,

it was in my
silken milk moonbath
that i rinsed the nagging
sharp terrors from my
fortitude undergoing
a quickening,

and in the pool of light
amid the crystal rocks -

that i gave my fervent
wet hearted
soliloquies.

--

lest i forget,

it was in the
late moon's lament
with his opal grand aura
painting softly my glowing path
that i embraced the silent
white cub, in his quaky
ascent who radically
up-ended my
existence.

--

treasured Sir Moon
in your tremulous
spry loon

i trust the satin truth
in the madness you brew.

I've been adding more green leaves
And flower buds to my mask,
Lately,
I even cut away, a bit,
To reveal the scar above my eye.

Though,

I had to paint on more smileys
With glitter,
The other day,
To counter the angled eyes
That cut right through them.

But then,

Someone ripped off
The string on the right.

So, now, it,
Occasionally,
Swings -

Back
And then forth
And then back
And then forth,

Unless, I make a pointed effort,
To hold it up to my face.


But,
For now,

I don't give a
Cut phone cord.

He likes joy girls,

The ones that spring upward in the wee hours
And smile because the sun is coming soon -
The ones that rise with the sun
And keep right on rising,
Even 'til the sun is setting -
Then they rise on
Into the night,

He likes girls with fluttering fingers
That tingle when they touch you -
Ones with round-eyed spirits
That peek out from the pockets of their irises.

He likes joy girls,

Those "sun-in-my-pocket" girls,
The skipping instead of walking,
The "I'm too tired of talking,
(I'd rather be off singing)"
Girls,

Girls with giggles so infectious
His frown can't help but slip-up,

He holds these girls the tightest to him
'cause his days look much too much like
The endings of,

Late October dusks.

She pushed her cart so frankly,
Eyes straight forward -
Never sidecast,

Nor down to the tray
Showing a splendid array
Of treats
I knew
Were mine.

But then that woman
Went blinking mad!
Racin' her goodie cart
Much too fast,

Rudely ahead,
At things I
Yet
Had said -
Her gown
Screaming

A ****** red.

--

Hair yanked
My eyes
Down -
The drone had stolen my gown!

Rattling wheels
Still forging ahead -

She had given me her
Flute and her
Tongue-tied suit,

(The suit that I knew
Gave them
Control over you),

Her wolf eyes
Wide,
And dead.

My filed down nails
Grew into claws,
Clenching my empty cup,

"I did not drink it!"
"I will not drink it!"

Then the cup was filled back up.

That woman stood still
In front of me -
Hands tied down to her sides,

As she silently mouthed her
Starch-white song,

"There's nowhere
You can hide."

I hurled my cup
With that bitter water
At her blaringly
Condemning
Face,

"I will not eat
Your grinning sweets!
You won't keep me
In this place!"

--

Nuts and bolts
Flying and Floating -
Stinging a rip
In time,

Punctuation
Chasing my words,
In haste -

But,
No trace of her
Could I find.

--

Too much parepin in my water.

Sit still, now, chil’,
While I untangle this mess -
You ain’t goin’ swimmin’
‘til it’s all in braids,

The mo’ naps you got,
The mo’ hair you lose,
I’m ti’ed of strugglin’
With this pick
And flat comb,

—

‘cause yo hair is too thick,
I’m at the enda mah wick,

And, mah grays are doin’
Anything -

But, fadin’.

In the world upstairs
Are walls as veils,
Balleting in
Inner winds.

Shadows criss-cross
The songs
That trudge
From throngs
Of masses
Running around,
In chaos
That sneaks over -
Guised in cloaks
That rival its
Counterpart.

I guess,

The world that burst forth
From my tender red womb
Is maniacally clawing
To get back inside,
Now,

Or am I pulling it by
It's tangled hairs?

Afterall,

I am flustered
With it wrenching
The brush from my hand,
Each time I reach out
To unravel the mess
It's made,

(Or, I made?)

Either way,

I'll let bygones be bygones,
Even if it means
Being carried away -
Lost in sterilized hair strands,
Sleeping wordlessly,
Amid

Insanely white teeth.