~*~
THE MYSTERIOUS WISTERIA GROWS BESIDE A SEATED STONE
I was born at a very early age. Later, I came to resemble
my misconceptions and grew into the egg
I had been commissioned to avoid and exist in.
In this way, we are issued.
My freckled shell now sings etudes in memory of Chopin.
Events have become things that happen through the music.
A star kitty floats between our arms and teacups tilted.
In this way, we become a collective.
In this way, we share the effects of mercy and cocaine.
In this way, we emit and absorb the shocks of erecting walls
between us.
An African red blushes my inner cheek, where an unspoken
blood singes these lips. The thought of your papilla holding
steadfast when the hairs take root makes me quiver.
You are a growing human moreso than ever charted before.
I make marks on sidewalks and sand to move around you.
My shell is my torso in need of constant attention,
embarrassed by unworded cutaneous hungers.
This flesh thins and the calcium startles bodies of water.
Instead of the rest, I wish the blue mountains would grow,
claim our terrain, eclipsed by the peacock’s transsexual mane;
I wish the first year started to show again, confusion
built from happiness, viewpoints like smoke, afloat and attack
the senses looped through the eye of a wave
on a beach you see us through. I wish
on a barge of ice with questions, you are a pleasant person
to spend the mood of the moment, with forever infused.
I wish those lovelorn, the bad stories in furnished rooms
a chronic reverie to be carried by the shadow of the opal sea.
~*~
BORN TO LOVE THE BEAUTY WE HAVE NOT
—After the DADA
When one mohawks a setting tongue,
wealthier natural forces resort to licking
the anxious atoms of the underfed.This class contains starshot birthrights
that seed the climbing seasons. My blue mistress
pumps her plump clouds for a chronic informationThat there are more memories in
my Chinese torture chamber of recycled persons
than originally bargained about,A doorbell revolver in the key of ‘C’ next
opens the toothed vagina to cut jealous
friends from incest’s silhouettes.She becomes a girl born without her mother,
an insect apology on the hip of humanity,
curably the gravest alien in us all.And in the sphere of migraines, we discover
the past is traced forever for heaven, an insignia
woven into “mosquitoes domestics half-stock.”We will wear this cape on a constellation over
my idol’s interior realms, and pay the diabolo player
for every distraction and his openly devilish games.
~*~
MEN WHO FAVOR THE PISTOL
Geranium daughter shot, she glows at the fringe
of illumination lines. On the toe,
each friend presents a world divided by mistakes:
you’re my first good time with headlines, local star afflatus.In actual time, the mercury that killed you comes
from pills of blue, salt and pepper skies.
They burn blue into blue into bright.Another version of fitting in contends the one born
every minute. I’m like side effects of the nearest star
in residence, reflecting those intrepid plans:Gut the Buddha within. With peer-reviewed thoughtfulness,
make me love you harder: all’s I’ve got
are my silent blogs and barefaced hopes, knuckled down.I’ve experienced blood alcohol lately
in rose-colored hues, just like an effort
to become Loretta Lynn via vacuous spirits.As such when things happen
in two’s, I turn third wheel
and make the notes for crusade songs
that will ultimately miss out on you.Sensitivity too, I like that in a stranger.
These theaters of operation are built for men
who favor the pistol, organ grinders of a minor key.When we have finally faced the dream of contempt
together, we will sit and divvy up our leftover peanuts,
smoke and eat by the light of the first fire, telling each other
off from the starting gate again, attempting to be borne from
this world, a serious-hearted omission in our heroine’s last call.
~*~
I USED TO BE AMY KING
The two-timing winged kitchens step out
of sync like these lungs get their moisture daily
from blood in this wall’s venous corpus.She worried she wouldn’t have far to fetch
her remaining horses, just where I fondle
vials of molasses beneath my evaporating desk.Ask the youth of a pliable generation who demonstrates
to hell with the objective as pills for critical disease:
When our doubles fly overhead, we reek the contagion.Doctors also resurrect hetero-others in the very best bearded
ladies present. Gutsy glued-on-minds, a mimicking monkey
coordinates posture, talking us hollow en route.We later formed a trio of thieves and left the bandbox
for an enemy to seek. Curling in the maestro’s womb,
we were bred to be the best neglected fun, forthcoming.
~*~
IN CASE OF SPINE
Fingerprint bathrobe,
a cadre of prisoners encrusted
climbs onto today’s obligation,
which will look like cooked skins
if you’re not on the verge
of burning yourself
out before
this content can answer
a freeing thing,
free until they cut me
from the well of loneliness
where I drowned years later.
Staple my fingered patterns
in unisex tatters.
Weed my sounds from
weekly lesson plans
and ask for me where
the sun’s made of
a looking glass brightly
because now is not the only
constant corner you find me
in repeated fashion.
I am clumsily lying
across your lap, a sexpot gaze
into the stars of your eyes,
breathing the witch-hazel
from your slippery shadow.
It's generally good karma
to perceive how a beer
can lengthen one's mind
and come to accept a sense
of the smile's blessed teeth.
~*~
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