Tundralabra


My amethyst fist
in sank soil
on a rank day
where my hour clocks in
at Forever at a time
while Time
is a dream
on a perpetual
porch…
I slip
into my own
blood in the guise of a lightning bolt
murdering my
dullard.

With Open Eyes.

I come up!

when the conversation
is lapsing into a whimsy
that snarls at Death…
and when I have no pigeons
to tell Nothing too…
I have no Reason
to not
Keep a Sky for Myself.


II


Here I come from slumber’s thunderous churning
in more mornings than your handful
of  Nightfall…
I watch you frame
an echo like a Fool under glass
and carry on
in your slim way
weaving Madrigals of Low tolerance
where a Pantomime Horse
had a better chance
at being an Indian
than You!

I’m
Chaucer with a softer brick.
And Balloons!