Sometimes I wake up to
spatial tension
and awkward sting,
where there are fractions of
unwanted proteins and
dripping enzymes.
Sometimes I wake up to
obsidian corpuscles
of unknown origin
and encounters with
sentiment-shakers,
dream-eaters,
and rafter-rattlers.
Sometimes it is as simple as
dripping beige,
intangible amber,
and cold, cold, blue.
Sometimes I wake up
to nothing, too.

Twirl your tastebuds —
let me taste your
modal schwa
your vellum staining
truth or dare,
let me down
your feather-quill;
your quenching quantum
quaking.

I s’ppose rattlesnakes can’t be
ninjas. Yes — they got
the striking and the stinging
part right, but they
are not really masters
of subtlety; they make
too much noise and take
a considerable amount
of time to make a **** and
they can never hold katanas and
hurl throwing stars. I guess
rattlesnakes are doomed to
crawl and rattle on, announcing
Hey, I carry venom, as
the rats would thank their ears and
the hawks circle above.

In seductions of ******
wisps of alarm, tongues fly
catching fire, their croaks
are red-headed matchsticks.

Intrepid hourly, the
blanketed white harassed
the appointed locum, the
cashmere buds of tobacco.

The open mouths adhere to
the King of Limbs, the
experimental corsages that
— bloom —
into existence.

There is a space between
all the noise where
my fetal poise can reside,

forever holding,
holding on,

forever holding,
holding on.

Frances Justine, with eyes of bella blue,
with tipsy gait and freely-falling shambles of a step,
half-awake, half-dreaming in the onset of a rush
of seeping winds' complaints unto the painted walls of bleach.
A phantom dressed in sighing silk, a glimmer-dress unbound,
her fingers wrapped in lace and fragile trimmings of the earth;
a sonic trembling synchronized with evening humming low,
this tapping placed upon a table -- forests in the flow.

Frances Justine,
the pretty,
the proud --
had relished these demeanors for a lady most in love;
how liquid are her movements as she dances in the wait
of gales that hope take her far, to continents away.

Away, so far away, from this pertinent monsoon,
her setting heart thus painted with the phases of the moon,
it floats, but not for long, the sky's
half-empty and half-full;

there, Frances Justine darkly was
just waiting to be whole.

I.

April made port.
The hordes of sand stood ready; surveilled
the eccentricities of April with a judging
eye. Lightwinds seem to sturggle pathing as if
they were still learning cantrips. No blood no magic.
All is well with my soul.

The crooning of the bony earth woke the
slumbering April-bud. It sang in seismic trembles.
We danced with the needles that recorded this symphony.
The ticking of your hair. The elevated pulses of
sharp, angled red; we rejoiced in the every spike.

Ruminations preserved.

II.

Sometimes, I wish there were
parking lots for ants in front of a bar
where they would swap stories while
drowning in vats of apple saliva.

Their antennae would sway to and fro,
and there would be proper queues which
would make the sight more stunning and
post-apocalyptic. There would be lots
of kissing. There would be courtesy and curtsies.
There would be stories about patriotism; how
they so love their Queen and would fight
for Queen and colony and breadcrumbs and peas.
There will be no discrimination; no one
shall look at one ant and say, “Hey, sugar-lover;”
the winged will fall in line as much as
the crawling red and black.

Ruminations reserved.

III.

O cold, cold, Earth, t’was your day, in echoing chime!
The miters sanctified by satyr priests bore bare
relations succinctly longed for and wanted! Godspeed!
The atmosphere wears its gown, the Aurora, in celebration!
The drum-line needs no motivating, it goes ever on, the snares
rumbling in sync with the fire-ants marching in time,
the fire-ants marching in time! Never before had a white flag
been as unnecessary. O cold, cold Earth,
cruise the orbit with this enchanting chanting, ever-going on.

Ruminations deserved.

IV.

The Queen is dead.
Long live the Queen.

*Ruminations unheard.

You are temperate
kisses on frost-chilled windows.
The fragrant evergreen and pine,
the delicate rasping of wine
against velvet throats. You are thicket-
carpeted tongue where settled
crumbs of honey-lathered toast,
burnt, crisp, crumbly, spongy,
unlike your walls. The changing of
locks, the changing of keys might
not be a good way to spend time;
they’re blind to sines, your shimmering
solar attic-roof, your gauntlet garden,
your haunted keep. You are beautiful in ways
most men can’t discern, be careful
who you let in, and in turn,
be careful who you let
return.

You will never feel
what I felt. You will never
sit beside yourself.

There is a cloud that loves
to sleep between
comprehension and
your ears.