I stood in front of the toaster oven to retrieve my slightly singed toast, and for a moment, I felt the warmth of the sun.

It's been so long since I've seen the sun. I suppose I've grown accustomed to the cruel skies of a bitter climate. Lately, all that can be seen of the world when I look out my bedroom window is the grey sky and the bare bones of a Japanese maple.

The waterlogged earth squelches underfoot, weeping the melted snow up through a sparse carpet of grass. The grass, also, is barely keeping it together.

The skin on my hands has grown dry and rough, and while I could blame this on my clumsiness or demanding pastimes, I know better. Occasionally I work up the motivation to fight this process with some lotion or other. But yet, the heat of my apartment and the chill winds persist.

Will my hands ever again have that soft tenderness? Will we ever again see the sun? Will we ever?

The croci are swelling,
pressing up towards chill winds,
straining the surface tension of the dampened earth.
Unfolding gentle lips of purple and white to taste the spring,
like the flick of a snake's tongue,
they sway, eyes closed and arms open.
They beckon you to stroke softly with your fingers,
and tremble when you inhale as yellow powder speckles your face,
and they giggle.

But unlike the trees and bushes,
they never age.
Thin, nubile, soft bodies will wither,
the fingers they've poked up through the leaves and twigs underfoot will pull away.
The croci swell and dance,
but they never throw their heads back and sing

Recipe for an All-Purpose Orifice
Makes one serving of patience

1 part nasal cavity
1 part ******* *****
1 part yonic *****
1 part oral cavity
1 part aural cavity

Blend gently in a hollow synthetic cylinder.
Envelope the spirit of the form.
Let it set.
Gently coax the form out, once you've assured the spirit of its safety.
Accept the tedium; love can be tedious.
Set it on your shelf for people to pick up and wonder at at dinner parties.
Carry it with you when you move.
Leave instructions in your will requiring your loved ones bring it to the cemetery yearly.

b.

Once the sage gaze of starlight fades,

the twinkle and flash of cosmological mineral death,

descending in a tumble through the atmosphere,

puncturing each layer like a pebble through cobwebs,

we wake to a frightening new wonder.

We rise to the growling of the center and the sun.

Shouldn’t talk about it,
But a thousand times,
A thousand singing stars from now,
You’ll hear the flip
Of my cards hit the table.


The kingfisher left the crown,
And a lantern in the storm
Scattered arrow shadows,
Pointing violent paths through
The blinding white.


We hope for the shining respect
Of yellow prints in the darkness.
Sharp stars between jungle leaves,
And the whisper of cosmic shifting.


Like the gods rolling over in their galactic sheets,
Sending waves of glittered gasses
And planetary matter,
flying.

You frighten me, in the way that a small bird or beautiful flower would frighten me.
The way a soft rabbit might rub against my ankle and and doze in my lap.
You are the clouds beneath my weary airplane, flung out across the atmosphere.
And you are the prickle of a heavy wool blanket in the thin chill of the night.
You are the the warm, green earth of the mountains, holding up the lightness of the blue sky.
The breeze kisses at the hem and collar of my shirt, and I hear you in it.
I lose you in my arms and find you, a fleeting creature in the forest.

Dear old lover,
You send me all these signs to remind me that you’re around.
You come again and again to **** me over in your bed of lies,
You give me cracked porcelain and glass expectations for me to mend with gold.
But you’re a topaz among yellow diamonds, a ******* rube.
But you’re Splenda, ******* Stevia.
You’re overpriced, second hand Ikea,
I’d push you into a swimming pool to ruin your silk tie.
Your hands white from the bleach and peroxide, and collar yellow from nervous sweats.
Yeah, you’ve got a library; dictionaries of medicine and candy sweet science,
but you must have burned everything on doing a person right.
You’re a double entendre pain-in-my-*******-*** with a Ken doll grin.
Give Mr. Freeze his heart, and buy your soul back from the devil.
As filthy as it is, you could do with a little in your life.
Dear former friend,
I want you like a salad of poison ivy,
I need you like I need a nap, and I’m the designated driver.
You’re chopped liver, and your humors are out of whack,
The crown you wear is turning your forehead green and doesn’t fit quite right.
I’m the beast and you’re the burden
You’re the straw and this camel is kicking you off
at last chance, last call, last stop Nowhereville
You bathe in the bubbles of champagne dreams and silver fantasies,
But I’m the cup of ambrosia gods long for, and you lost me.