A creeper on the glass mirror would love to try and find

A haven for his stench to sink and be welcomed

Wind’s rhythm and gold’s beats are changing

Your red and black arch is tears of happiness for

The taken joker with the mocking-night smile

It’s a warning for the earth worms below to curl in mush

And stretch out to envelop the broken down rock grit

All while they sleep.



Sigh and grace the side of my cheek with the back

Of your hand. Will you slap my one day? No, never—

What could a little stink bug do to harm me?

One cannot separate their treasures easily—

Or perhaps rubies did not fit with the cool black night stone,

But then I remembered that the black widow eats her mate

And I stumbled on foot for a long time before I knew you.

Enough said.



It was warm that day—very fresh and brightly lit

My wrists swung docilely, facing outward—and your fingers

Laced with my hand—silent clamps and scalpels and ropes

To turn—at just the right moment. Pushing aside my answer.

And forcing me downward as if a swarm, making me a millstone

Sinker to the restless night from which I have not woken entirely.

Half developed larvae.



It’s funny walking by a window—in the fall, or perhaps the summer

My, my there are a lot of you in haggard clumps

Creating speckled shadows that dot my inner room.

Silly, the way you’ve bit my ear, and now all I hear is tainted.

I’ll steadily walk in grey and violet. No longer a ruby.

Child, you’ve got a long way to fly—a long time to mate.

Avoid those boxelders.



.

Diving into Buttercups--

My favorite pastime

The loveliest of happenings,

And things happened long ago,

And things that have yet to happen.



Each beat of the sunrays,

Each clap of the spring breeze

On the water below,

And the birds of love flying

Around my quiet hammock.



Absent thimbles are to be feared—

Especially if the needle is rusty,

Especially when I’m hemophilic--

And already on my face, bleeding,

Just begging for the yellow flowers!



Each rip of an artery so small

Each measly yet itching infection

On my pulsing bulb is wailing.

And the dark robed ghosts

Are waiting to take me.



I am a thorny buttercup

With no thimble for a shield.

I am a delicate beauty,

A pointed killer,

And a mirror to the morning star.

Chime, clatter, clank, ring,

Clink, dream, shuffle, rub

What’s that you say?

Where’s that racket coming from?

Why, it’s the wings on my heart, a flappin’ together

Having one hell of a party

Watchin’ all the pretty people go by.

Red and blue figures running strait out of the aorta

With flashing clappers in their hands.

What racket? It’s a celebration!

Watch the jumpers swirl,

The tumblers whirl,

My own arms flap as I want to hurl

Up all my faults to make room for more joy

To allow my body the ability to express,

That which it cannot.

What is a skeleton?

Just take it away! And my limbs can join the heart runners

A wobblin’ and bendin’ and flappin’ each way

Kiss the day, kiss, kiss the day

What are my innards?

Just take em’ right out!

I’ll have more room

For the smiles of children,

Golding leaves,

And black ambition.

I’ll be able to **** in the morning air with all my being

And fill the cavity where my intestines once were

With real soul soup—savory sweet

And people say there’s no heaven?

This I’ll never believe.

There was a special little part of me
It slipped away on Saturday
The pretty bird let out a cry and flew
It wasn’t forced, It wasn’t sure
But curious and soft, demure,
I gave that little part of me to you.

I cannot count the times I tried
To make her stay, I cannot lie
A white lace gown would surely be ideal
But in your eyes I get so lost
I changed my mind; I paid the cost
You see, it’s just the way you make me feel

I hope you keep my little bird
Close to your heart—a silent word,
A gift, that you will treasure all your days
She cares about you; hear her sing!
And you, you are my everything,
I hope that I will be with you always.

I’ve got a little gift

I’ve cupped it in my hands for you

Between each sweaty palm it lies

Pulsing.

If you’d like to take it

And press it to your chest,

And let it sink, although not painfully,

Into your core—you can.

It leads down to my soft wrists

And through my arms

Gracing my sore shoulders

And the ballet curve in my back

Sitting, settling in my hips

And shaking, shaking when they sway

Dropping it through my strong thighs

Like weights in my knees

And out, out

Through the bottom of my heels

To fly back up again

And shoot sparks through my neck

And lead you

To a place where you can become very lost

The colored pebble paths all look the same--

They wind and twist and spiral out my eyes!

Deeper, deeper, backwards as well.

The blank face by the white picket fence

The dusty bulbs ‘round the oval mirror

The flicking lights and constant, glorious

Discordant anthem!

There’s a mermaid who can

Shoot sweet syrup from her fingertips;

She’ll ****** you,

And carry you down more colored paths

Than you’ve ever dreamed of walking.

Every night you’ll be happy

And she’ll try not to release the venom from her teeth

I promise.

If you take it…

Ignore the broken glass on the floor

Hold it and speak to it

Keep it someplace warm.

And please—watch my eyelashes

They rise and fall

For you, for you, for you.

.

I thought I was merely plucking fluff
From feather stuffed pillows
Now my heart pounds
And longs to ring a new bell
Strange, unnerving, and all too wonderful
Was there an open door there—?
There on your fingertips?
Is there milk maid anywhere to finish her churning job?
So butter can be made.
Maid made. Makes me no longer maid.
Pushes me into the ever black forest
Of your eyes.

I wear a sweatshirt
So you can’t see how bright
My heartstrings are shining
So you can’t figure me out—
It just wouldn’t be fair, considering I am not sure
Of myself, myself.
Sinking in warmth through the crystal night
Just yesterday I wouldn’t have given this a thought
And now here we are-- together—maybe?
My only greatest hope
Is that the door on the tip of your finger
Is not revolving.

My mother’s eyes still redden
Like a hurt child
Too tough to open and cry

His hands were too pink
His veins were too blue
His temper was too short

My mother has a shell
And she loves it,
Hides her, hides her.

His heart could not sing,
His father had set
Him in his ways.

My mother hade tried
She reached for his hand
Itching for three.

His love for his Savior
His falling from it
His deep silent cage

My mother is quiet
About what has been
She’s left it behind.

His crawling through the door
His overtaking disease
His saggy lipped drawl


My mother’s hands are warm,
Never repeating the past.
Tending child and garden.

He sits there the same
A dull man consumed
Waiting to die.

My mother paints a smile.
She wears it always
Skirting around the topic.

Reaches of my smile
Rocking like a fishing boat
Trying not to laugh.

Step up, step up and tell me your name,

And tell me your throaty thoughts,

And  the quiet places where you wade.



Only one nickel to tell me your dreams,

Let me seep in your crevices,

I’ll be the sand in your shoe’s seams.



Shout out your fears and apprehensions!

I read you the answers straight from the book

Of diagnosis in the mental dimensions.



Straight up, tell me why you breathe?

Do you live for the journey?

Or luxurious rapture on a summer’s eve?



Why is your smile the color of smoke?

Tell me every detail as vivid as possible,

Now why do you choke?



I’m a faceless “listener” and judge, that's me!

Do not let those maternal boundaries blur.

Spill your guts out of respect for a PhD!



.

Do you see the reflection of my face?

It is red. Simply red.

I care not to change it, it can be red

If red is what it would like to be.



Unreadable red—the stereo type

Of love and of passion.

I am sick of such redness—

This red I am not.



Can you see my fight inside?

It is orange, simply orange.

It is fiery and weird—

The orange place I have not explored



Orange, orange is my indecision

Orange peels in my place

In my burlap stomach

Orange my guilt.



Can you see the light on my chest?

It is yellow, simply yellow.

Yellow like sun in January

When grey passes.



Joyous yellow, where marigolds play

Where milk is churned to hope

And where smiles wade,

I roll in yellow.



Can you see the rage in my eyes?

It is green, simply green.

Green like emerald glens

And raggy earth.



Seductive green, my flute

My dancing color

In gentle waving grass

My green bed lies.



Can you see my shallow cheek?

It is blue, simply blue.

Blue like frost bitten morning,

All a’ sparkle



Patient blue, the color by which

My skin is velvet.

Blue interrupting my eyes—

Inconsiderate blue.



Do you see my sagging arms?

They are purple, simply purple.

Purple like complacence.

My purple love.



Pristine purple, holding on

To all it tends

My confidence, sweet,

Dearest purple.

I am eyeing the place upward between the bees and the ground--
I hear buzzing. I hear hushing.
I am drinking the potion of greatness from dolls surrounding
In a dollhouse. On the stage.
I am a puppet of plot and character and episode
The sky. Is the limit.
I am moving each muscle in the magic flow
Of energy. Of the theatre.
I am speaking words that fly up high
To the heart. To the people.
A bird on God’s stage.

I was clipping white waves with soft fingers

On the bow of your seagull swoop;

I was stringing red matter like putty

Between tendrils of peach.



I was kissing velvet with velvet

And water with water made clean.

I was swiriling white pearls with chocolate,

Falling through unhinged spaces.



I was drawing conclusions like bodies

And piping hot bodies like conclusions.

I was mottled and close to you like warm coffee,

Fringed with green lace through seduction.



I was mapping out skyways with vigor:

Dancing precariously on the tip of a pen.

I was waiting for the crash of burgundy

But all I felt were your arms!



I was answering to blue minnows

Under the ice clear water by my feet.

I was twisting my form like truths

And I did not, do not, want it to stop.

Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down
The children cry
Down their sorrows and tribulations
To a hankering disposal
With ceaseless churning and grinding
The heavy bruised weights
Under eyes drag the soul downwards
Until drifting into another world
The peaceful dark place in which
The inner ear has no control over balance.
Be still my arms, my chest, my throat—
Let not heavy eyes grow blue and sore
Let me sleep, just sleep, just sleep…

Sift down to the gritty, shaking hands rock to and fro like a Ferris wheel car
Struggling each sinking stone to shush, to mute entirely, to caress each knuckle
To reassure—or at least calm the twisting worm on the dry sun caked pavement.
I listen to each breath in my ear, a mirror to things past, a gentle sloshing of misfortunes
Round and round the acid wall where the memories paint my smile
One pin ***** could spew cannibal poison in my cavity and eat me from the inside out.

The veiled things pushed to the back of the top shelf sink their dull talons downward
The pain was sharp once—the wound fresh and inexperienced, weeping non stop,
But now it is dull…sore like the dark morning in winter. A boarded up cabinet.
Yet always in my vision, always, always—a grey murmur, subtle yet driving me,
The vigil, to pry my lids open. To feel the sting of air gnawing at moisture—
To place black lilies on the casket of our love, and never ever look away.

There’s a silver wisp

Encountering to two black holes

To linger and to freeze

And what I breathe is winter



The burning leaves before each eve

The moisture rotting away the wood

A cupping of burly brown earth

Settles in the crevices of my hands



The warming in each tender place

The sifting coal down alley ways

Hand made mittens and frost about

I tense my shoulders as I walk



The morrow shifts its eyes low

To peer alone at barren earth

And tuck it in to sleep

For lo, I feel the coming white.