Tuesday, July 21, 2009


we kill the mundane with every beat and resurrect it in every breath, only to have it die again.

children speak their truth, under the glaring sun spotlight.
young lizards at high noon on quiet Mondays playing peek-a-boo with reality.
the beads of sweat necklace disguises itself as glitter.
casting prisms on hands, testing toes for a pulse post overdose of vitamin D and pheromones
allowed to waft freely in the temperamental breeze.

bats sleep and butterflies dance between the teeth of the dragon;
SNAPS with ill intentions, diverted into lavish distractions and perversions.
bending innocence under the weight of observation. the tears of possibility collect
in the pink poppy bowl. the garden corrupted and baptized by lightening;
the tongue of fire tastes of temptation.

we melt the penetrating fingers of a frigid nobody while feeding from pomegranate nipples!
laid out wet on drying chairs. "Nobody knows my Name, Nobody is my Name"
screams echo off the rustling trees. bathing in the central strain of anticipation;
tasting the dirt of her soul, sucking teeth in satisfaction.

undulating in a vat, dyed the color of hubris. dripping wet piled limb high
only to dunk and pile until satisfied, the spinning sisters unravel their weaving.
feeble fingers entangled in the knotted tapestry, deconstructing free-will. failing
to fight the disillusion of fate.

i've smeared the future into the face of the past and tasted the seeds;
embellished in the crust, present of the serene.

Monday, July 6, 2009

at rainbows end


i keep my weight under lock and key,
safe guarding each precious ounce. within every pound
a trapped poem resides.

the logos, in a holding pattern.
like the garden, saturated by twenty days of rain.
demanding the suns warmth to liberate the petals; the chrysalis of buds.

two red lilies in an ocean of orange
unseen ready to take flight.
a pea lost in a sea of tendrils
holding on as the siren speaks for truth.

we are at the half way marker without an ark.


box is damaged, but i don't care

sing with me skipping stones among the flood.

having to choose between watching bats and fireflies is a fine quandary;
as is finding oneself stuck in the same spot following the moon
across the darkness. still as sleep,with open eyes watching
the tremble of flora shooting up. forever up.

everything is new again;
the keeper is on holiday.

is told by the rivers reflection upon the trees.
trapped by walls the jumping mimics the big-bang
and Atlas holds holds my burden. Love.

sleeps later than most days, hiding soft lips and acrid kisses.
the wind decides our placement in the pile of embraces, leaves, and memory.
under the weight of children, pressed like the last seasons flower
believing in life, as giggles become rain.

tames the night in the garden. revealing its beauty only when the fireflies sting
the greenery like holiday lights. the moon hangs in a gallery of stars
framed by branches as the chorus of bats falsettos rise swoop like lovers
knotted in sheets.

the mortar of mud trying to swallow toes,
turning lustful maids into flowers.
first with petals erect, showing their wares to the sun.
dropping petticoats, yet always baring chests to showers
at sunset and rainbows.

she tendrils up a mulberry tree on the road to redemption.
her leaves eat only the fruit of life's pie. breathing rain
like fire, due west.
ready to come again into the layers and secrets.

back to the garden to find fate and destiny holding hands,
shielded behind a peacock fan in a bed of asphodel.