“Band Without a Leader”

11 Mar

“Band Without a Leader”

If it leads by the teeth of your leash
pour me into the blind white pint
of a bald leopard curse striking pink
these goggles know holy waters
dead lips
these goggles last you merry winters,
for merry are we the “volcano sisters”
in seismic semaphore,
in seizures casting grooves in holy silence
splashing a hold on you:
the veined gloves, the throttle of control
I’d like to breathe a birthday wish
through to your carcass in ripples
these swirling universes
the steel private of a thief
whip-its of lead
peel me a rose from a real treat
titters and an ice-cold glass
the grapes are window-dressing
and tell me, tell me, tell me
to tease your wings to flakes of frost
I’d fall all over the weasel of you.

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“When You Were Going Back to Guam”

9 Mar

“When you were going back to Guam”

Tears in your sandals
made of sand
your father was home
but your mother was alone
split garden shears, splints
and roaming roses
did if you breathe your fog breath
in the mud room
and you played a gold guitar
in the sparkling stars of weighted blankets
and straitjackets
as if this arrow could be straight
enough to point print
lovelies to the shining sun
your burnt hands
pale legs, wrung pleated skirt
let go this twisted weekend
braid your mother always home
your father was lonely too
the lizards stretched
and breathed a smile
caught sunning on the deck’s skin
like if the shark is a wolf’s friend
like a shadow
and this ghost ship will plant you
in future deities.

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“Arguing Over Nothing”

21 Jan

“Arguing Over Nothing”

It suits you in half clay
on a riverbed far away
breasts and breaths
to the windows of your soul
a beacon too
fog-bled in a fist of nuns, low to low
and bra buckles,
burn sweetly leaf,
and phantom oneness
I’ll leap from every arrow
forever forward of you
fed to the dead grass of leftover arms
and skin
in a nauseous gaze
deciduous as the disease
the laughingstock is undressed
forever silt to your stockings
what’s the point of a tongue
when all you taste is bullseyes
on your backward lives.

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“Strawberry Sugarcane”

17 Jan

“Strawberry Sugarcane”

We breed to avoid
and breathe in the gold of the void
the cold parallel lines
the lime juice of your kiss
the arcade of torment and terror
to moan the rise of graves
the rows and rows of roses
it’s time it happened now
belief overlaps belief
briefly spoiled hours
the ash blown from jewelry
for shinier thy heart
there never was an answer
truly, truly, truly
never a moment enough
in these half-closed eyelid hours
the dream did never sleep
and left diced enough alive for you
the sweet peach and poison
of knocking our knees together.

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“Love”

24 Dec

“Love”

There’s a certain amount of love
left in the juice jar
nobody in, nobody out
but left up to the feet
on the ceiling in doubt

to be here in colds
as eternally an open window
to the blind guest
in streaking
this halo of flies
riddled to the spine stitches
steam blows us off of
carrying us to warm
washcloth storms
to harm the charm of us
a bony harp
cutlass wind
patina of evil
coasts above
sea-thorn coasts
everything you knew
the choice you put away
a diorama of poverty
clipped pinkies
ringed your coat
and walked away
on chalk-outline together.

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Elizabeth von Dracula #1 has been unleashed

21 Oct

A comic book I recently finished. It’s about 100 pages and contains 4 sequential art stories: “Blum Island,” “Pig Princess,” “Commuter’s Dream,” and “In Thy Kingdom.” Price is 5 bux plus 3 bux shipping for the literal double issue of Elizabeth von Dracula #1. Hopefully, a Paypal button is appearing below for you if you are into snagging a copy.

Sold out

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“Mask Fashion”

6 Sep

“Mask Fashion”

Through scarlet crypts
of poinsettias
this beloved headdress
turns a threadbare page, a flint mark
to blow this blouse
another story for your years
another sash,
another primrose, marked one
chalet and lipstick, goblins
tantamount to nothing
abandoned swing sets,
bubblegum in your hair
for this the angelic
coals with their wings
a rare promise
with the rise of your belabored health
belabored breathing
at last the mentally cured cyclone
rinse with me.

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“Questions?”

5 Sep

“Questions?”

Why are you so far away?
What ails you?
Where have all our children gone?
Are there pewter tulips?
A joy from the past keeps shaded,
stays alive,
wrings jewels and nips from bent towels.

Weather may come to cast,
and yet this ailing is a missing you,
a supplanted grove,
a cool and warm desire
is what ails you,
a tinker box which rubs the dock
the green bottle of ale for you
because the forgotten is heartbroken
but the joy is safe.

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“…”

4 Sep

“…”

He ate a can of tuna fish at lunch
in the shed where we laughed spilt sides
his mom was a drunk
she showed up in her bathrobe one day
pissed flames beside her car
oblivious of us
somehow maybe the cocky
might turn to sparrows
be free at last of us and all the chins
or maybe he stopped eating tuna fish
directly from the can
maybe he went down his own dark road
down on his lucky own tuned knees
his touch of certainty a stretch
his youth a pissed ant
his smile the friend of a shadow.

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“Nobody Gets to be a Poet”

3 Sep

“Nobody Gets to be A Poet”

At the mill town
toffee by a tossed hand in stained glass
coffee by the midst of mornings
these are your purse’s strings
covered by the overalls of oil
to come on time at once at peace teatime
on my bread delivery
they say it was the river killed you
we lie in a bed of blue roses
in music you felt something natural
it was in the way you arched your back, broken strength is being afraid
your spiritual own home
baked in bread
with the insects of girlhood
because of something you said or hid.

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