Lights like fireflies trapped in cans, hang
from frays of woolen string on a ceiling
bent from cracked planks into the shape
of a mushroom’s cap, an umbrella boat.

Underneath the molded oak sits the oars, sunk
half in the sand; a tattered cloak wraps a back
warped from the wet algae of the sea into the
shape of a green tortoise shell, an umbrella boat.

A chest on his chest, and a crown on his crown
protects his head and lays just ahead of the
waterline that creeps down the rotten ceiling
to a curled spine stuck to gold, an umbrella boat.

My eyelids refuse to kiss, wide,
they retreat far into dirt and sky.

The bottom lid is too occupied
with the layers of black fudge
frosted below both my eyes.

The top cap, too green to budge,
starts a secret affair with the lady
wearing a fur scarf up on my ridge.

They ***** with needles of hair
to make their once-kin bleed red,
but the only veins that appear

are on the black and blue gem
swaddled in my glossy white quilt,
cracks of lava in its wet soft nest.

My eyelids refuse to kiss.
They fight like street lights built
over the glow of neon signs.

My eyelids refuse to kiss,
but my lashes grow lush.

When the sun rises again,
an eclipse covers them
with a final wink, a touch.

The six-turned horns with yellow eyes
shivers in the crispy Olympus air
as a wave of clasping hands
claw at his wet blooded hair.

A man of the pebbles and mud,
a crook that grazed the land.
He grazed sixty years, but then,

anchored a fair folk on the red sea,
babes in the arms of the slopes below.
They were green and white, with smiles
and ears that savored his wispy white hair.

But a harsh winter came that
uncovered the black, they
dug it out of the caves; and so,
Gaia took their warm green away.

The people fought and spit as they
stole more slick from shadowed pits.
Friction sparking fires to burn their ire.
and the Ire spewed fire back at Him.

Now, the Horns stands betwixt their heat and the pit
shedding salt over their fall, not his, and
with a bleep tosses his cloven hooves over.
to leave them their green, to drown in black..

Within black feathers that perch on a pedestal, she
stands on an asphalt floor washed by static cymbals
that weave through bodies bumping clumsily together;
a sheen of she that rises up with eyes of red silver.

Eyes like a halo of stain glass windows over obsidian
with brown bear brows bristling at tees and suits
that slap and grab at the flow of her river of hair
winding over the hills and slopes of her dewy pear.

She sits and taps and drags a chip on her nail,
a red shattered mask of salty and wet sunsets.
The curl and pout of a finger and pointed chin
begets of me a twitch as if to hold her head.

I breathe in a shutter of her honeysuckle mist
that rushes to cover her meaty sweat and spit.
Its sugar tips into my sandy lips and tongue and
begs me to dive into that oasis of Sangria breath.

My hot skin stretches its trembling hairs to caress
her walnut varnished chest that peeks barely
out of her hide-and-go-seek black velvet dress.
Cheeks and belly stuck in a butterfly grip, I gasp
as she turns and beneath peachy lips gives a grin.

We dance, two silhouettes under a laundromat
that inch and creep closer like mice, black blips
on a blizzard earth thick with moonlight that lean
and dip, dodging icicles to touch cold fingertips.

Her knuckles in a thin wool sweater, she slips
into the hose of my big overcoat as I brush
snow dust from the nest of her chestnut hair;
wet tennis shoes kiss my slick leather boots.

I stand too close to the sun. The warmth blows
the snow asunder, and sets fire to my lungs; as
my fingers begin to stray; pools of cocoa, lined
in eyeliner laid too thick, draw my face to hers.

Automobiles and meaty mid-afternoon meals,
red bricks and evergreens, trains and frostbite,
skyscrapers and knee scrapes, all leave me and
dissolve in amber bubbles as I lick her liquor lips.

My cotton candy blue eyes squint and
hide from the flow of orange marmalade
that drips off of big and burning Mr. Sun.

Splat! Splat! drums my stubby hands as I
play patty cake with the sticky sticky mud
that pools underneath green skyscrapers.

I like to come here and visit the fuzzy crawlers
and the yellow belly bees, (Don't touch!), and
even the scary green worms. Brother does not...

Brother is orange and wet and hot and sick;
Mr. Sun gives him all the sweet jelly, and
the dust from the coughing metal beasts
is making him ghoulish (or so mommy says).

He pants and he pants like he's finished
a looong race or like he's running away
from Mr. Farmer again, but he picks out
dinner, a tasty, yellow trophy (1st place!).

He looks down and smiles at me as I
make coco-cake to bring to his big party;
his teeth have orange in them too, now.
I wish Mr. Sun dried his eyes like me.