Saturday, June 23, 2018

Things Placed In A Velvet Box

It doesn't matter to me, anymore
if your buried name feeds flowers or wasps or nothing at all.
All day there is bread on a board, and a book's pages rolling with the breeze.
There is rain and minutes dying and both the best and least of these...

The things I placed on velvet, in a box
as children or idiots do, with fistfuls of forget-me-nots 
staining fingers blue, as ink will do
when spilled across pulped pages, entre nous...

It doesn't matter whose way 
is the less foolish one
or which moon 
will rise on the ash of a setting sun.

_______

for micro-poetry

Friday, June 22, 2018

Mulberry Rain

Rain falls from the leaves 
of the mulberry outside my window--
purple berries drop from its branches 
staining the walk--
my dog tracks them into the kitchen.

I love the rain--
my noisy neighbor stops working on his truck.
The rain, the berries, my dog
all soothe me,
but I am falling, too--
just slowly.
_____ 

A 55 for my excellent BFF.
 

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Hologram Family Robinson

The Hologram Family Robinson
lives nowhere because they don't exist. 
"You're projecting," they sneer at each other,
bloodless
boneless
auto-tuned assholes that they are.

They become peevish.
They become representations of reptiles
dying in a dream sequence involving a tar pit or peat bog.
"Discover us," they plead.
"Split our rock with a hammer, release us, love us."
But they are assholes, 
and like love
good advice
or last night's dinner,
everything goes right through them.
"Hail, signalman!" they cry, larynxless
like insects in the rotting ear of a dead man. 
_______

for "Unhappy Refrain" at Toads. I recycled a comment I left at Paper Tiger for this.

Monday, June 18, 2018

Maison D'oiseau

Here is the house with rivers for walls.
Mine is the body with voices for skin.
In your eyes, setting suns and cycling stars.

Mine is the port with a shore made of wind.
Docks are easy, moorings leaden;
morning birds fill every tree. 
______

for quadrille #59--cycle

Friday, June 15, 2018

Testament

I folded a love letter
inside a bible
and left them both

on a table
in the garden
overnight
in the rain.

As expected,
my new lover 
appeared

wearing the sun
and the wind
like epaulets 
on his shoulders.

With a strong open fist
he broke my loneliness.
A dove flies
to cold
lofty
Ararat.
_____

for my BFF's most entirely awesome 55 thang.
 

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Orange Peel

The white inside an orange peel
velvet soft as a water dream
bears the stunned blankness of betrayed wives.
Circles and sections,
heart beats, desires, babies, birds,
all in a grain of sand
or the eternal and silent dome of the sky.

The white inside an orange peel
fragrant with what it has already lost
remains beautiful, sensual, for a short time
but is already dying.
Circles and sections,
heart beats, desires, babies, birds,
none of these are meant to endure--
their purpose is goodbye,
their pinnacle sleeps in dust.

The white inside an orange peel
was/was never/ was/ was never one with the fruit it sheltered.
Lover sweet, lover who stings the knife's cut
all the same, and doomed themselves.
Circles and sections,
heart beats, desires, babies, birds,
all born of the branch and gone to the table,
the plate,
the necessary separation and then--
returned to the garden, the turned soil, the green shoots
and the endless rot and rise of everything. 
_______

Monday, June 11, 2018

Geometric Onion Dome Girl

Geometric onion dome girl has a resentment against stars.
Everything must be rooved--taxis, coffins, bus kiosks, and especially churches
because every little light can't be a christ.

Geometric onion dome girl got a paper cut from a phone book
while trying to give blood to the past to revive it.
The operator denounced her, 
just for old time's sake,
and quoted maxims instead of backing up her soul
with a more modern device.

Architects don't care about onion domes anymore,
and geometry is all angles and curves.
Revolutions never happen in the rain.
Tea is weak and poetry no longer burns.
Stars don't even light cigarettes,
and so the savior of circumferences plots a mid-point
between 
ennui 
and
effervescence,
shooting herself into space like old light in transit. 
______