Some imagined the Pope
to come in colors of scarlet and pale frost
candlelight mass and those sorts of hues
not the rosy flushed flesh color,
the color of not human deity
and apparently it was a problem.
Speaking of problem—
Dawn possesses this verse; she
who dazzles finger in the forenoon
gushing abundant the vertical blinds.
for duvet covers, trembling, quaking
I howl and go round & round.
Good morning star,
& I behave.
in my orange wing-back chair
counting the plastic circles
on my white linoleum shirt.
Watches tock around the walls
time steadily stealing through
the shelf, taking its pick of the books.
Continue reading “Science”
What happens, when
the cold morning breath of a foggy night
slips under the covers and over the lips
and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug
to a world that smells of light eucalyptus
and an open balcony door —
Exactly 11’o clock!
The streets are dark and quiet,
dispelled childhoods tucked deep into beds
of rubber, bleach, contact tracing —
when I look around me I see
my bare feet are blue & bleeding;
I see small swarms of cheeky mongoose rushing
from trash can to trash can
leaving filmy residue on the carpet street walk
down the lane for a while with me
and see what I see.
Weary eyes opened wide
propped up on toothpick espresso cups
licked clean, licked smart
the woman in the wide-brimmed hat
warm breath, wild thoughts
tells us of visions,
the dessert dunes
camels in hand
Mount Tahat in the dust kicked up
get outta here!
Standing with salty toes smelling of fish
on the grandstands of Nazare, cliffs so big
cresting giants double the height—
rising great walls of freezing winter water
jackets on so tight, skins the color of rubber
suctioned, hands so white gripping tows
a mammoth wave rising like the froth of a pub beer
it crests and slams—
I hold up my hand.
The light breeze swifts
a droplet of ocean onto my chin
and the twinkling lights of a Waikiki
late afternoon cruise beneath my epoxy board.
green mint tea seeps around the rim
of the garden plate
ductile : serpentine
I set the cup down
and it clatters.
It’s about how to see
the things how to get
to the vision
the tea cup is significant
and not a step in that direction.
In the sudsy bathtub with my lover
hot & content, one finger
fiddling a weeping joint
we soak in lavender
& hold each other ;
slippery skin to skin.
I want to do two things : first
try to show that life finalizes itself
on the threshing floor, engorged with a life-
time of self-thinking thoughts and self-sinking
At heart my father
was a naturalist.
He took my trembling hand
and told it to catch garter snakes
to slither as I slept
on the bedside table
to eat as I gagged
hands empty of crickets