heavenly hue
heart empties of blue and gray
Inheritance
High above, the dragon watched
the king and his young son
approach through deepening snow.
Flew down when they drew close.
Her laughter boomed from the rocks
like an anvil dropped on granite.
"Back again, Xau?
How to Love a Black Hole: Don't.
There’s a black hole in the middle of me
and it’s swallowing all the stars.
Did you hear me?
and it’s swallowing all the stars.
Did you hear me?
Denouement
Denouement
The movers are here this morning.
Only things with yellow post-its,
I tell them. I find my long lost earring
behind the couch. Probably landed there
that night we couldn't wait to get upstairs.
I put it in my pocket, wonder
if I kept the other one.
I divide the sterling service for eight
into two sets of four –
Solomon solution of no use
to either of us for dinner parties.
Cher Amazon
CHER AMAZÓN
Submarine incubus, forbidden hero
Held under the ruinous
Weight of the water since 1838
While you grew no older
ON A ROLL
Salutations! Call me 'Toilet Paper'
for life, (above ground), is but a vapor
spent early childhood wrapped in cellophane
with lily-white sheets and 'nary a stain
puffed up a little with wrapper removed
felt 'holier'. My edges smoothed
Hung around in stinky places a while
yet maintained innocence in quilted style
Some call me 'Softy', others call me 'Rough'
exterior strength/ interior fluff
'Clean White Sheets' is a recurring life theme
'to remain unripped'- my recurring dream
Solitary purpose: Unspoken, hushed
for life, (above ground), is but a vapor
spent early childhood wrapped in cellophane
with lily-white sheets and 'nary a stain
puffed up a little with wrapper removed
felt 'holier'. My edges smoothed
Hung around in stinky places a while
yet maintained innocence in quilted style
Some call me 'Softy', others call me 'Rough'
exterior strength/ interior fluff
'Clean White Sheets' is a recurring life theme
'to remain unripped'- my recurring dream
Solitary purpose: Unspoken, hushed
An Elegy for Part of Me
(In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month)
Today is a day for grieving; for wet eyes
and tight chest, for sad songs and rain.
There’s a map on my left breast where
there used to be skin, deep dark brown earth
upon which a flower has blossomed;
beside it are three imprints of an animal paw,
and a horizon lines the scar
through which part of me was taken.
Today is a day for grieving; for wet eyes
and tight chest, for sad songs and rain.
There’s a map on my left breast where
there used to be skin, deep dark brown earth
upon which a flower has blossomed;
beside it are three imprints of an animal paw,
and a horizon lines the scar
through which part of me was taken.
THE SAGA OF THE SHRINKING WHORE
Hail thy empathy
For the lady of the evening.
She agonized and writhed,
Yowled for the excruciating sting.
She sobbed,yet forebeared.
The affliction and intense dig on her,
Her dignity shattered
Her soul was inflamed with infamy.
Those are the emissary of Zeus,
Who fakes virtue and innocence.
With the ensuing dawn
They masks their bestiality,
But their true colours flashes out
With the blackest sunset.
They descents lofty tenets
And nails them by their own jaws,
They cloaks the sins in daylight
And undresses them at night.
They clenches the tainted breasts,
Sleeps with a whore for coitus,
The
Dinner with a Friend
You see her
And your fingers weep
She pricks
The extremities
Tips of them
Soft pads
Plush nailbeds
Silicon encased in velvet
They curl and tremble.
You want to put them to use
Finger-paint something exquisite
Something new
Like you and her.
To Pewetole Island
To Pewetole Island
I)
In the pale winter sunshine, I trudge
down the beach. High tide reaching
the sand, hissing—and just beyond
the waveline, the stacks tower
in their stark definitions.
These are the things one can know
with certainty:
age, birth, the dying
earth. I look carefully at the stacks’
austere forms above me: hardened sentinels of melange;
the sedimentary deposits
long waved away; Sitka spruce and juniper bent
against the constant pressures of
I)
In the pale winter sunshine, I trudge
down the beach. High tide reaching
the sand, hissing—and just beyond
the waveline, the stacks tower
in their stark definitions.
These are the things one can know
with certainty:
age, birth, the dying
earth. I look carefully at the stacks’
austere forms above me: hardened sentinels of melange;
the sedimentary deposits
long waved away; Sitka spruce and juniper bent
against the constant pressures of