Sun-Dried To-ma-toes

Borrowed decadende sang in my prepubecscent body as I contemplated
the depths of taste.
A red moment lush with the magnitude of near flight
fleshy rich fruit totured and mumified
Pungent and aqcuired
Depth packaged in secret guilt.
I felt pleasure in unshared senses,
Righteous claiming,
A wealthy mimickry of self.

Sad Interloper

The guitar, unheard, is to be imagined as
Sweet evening is speeding to unfold
Before noon has reached its peak.
The hiccups of time are melding into
The very moment when the subject, arrived,
Forgets the purpose of the journey
Which, is reason, that cannot be remembered.

Flying forward smoky signals,
A tamed beginning with a protruding sternum
Bends to a massive figure.
The fading notes of past instance
Are cease-start inside of a mouth so small
That it must have been formed yesterday.

The song is minor, trembling
Each chord tragic
With forewarning
For the intangible moment before
Life sparks beneath thin threads of hair—
It moves a corpse,
Tenured inside the bowels of her kin.
She wears pigtails,
A patchwork of blues
And a belly of rocks,
Beneath translucent skin.

There is no powder on my feet

If you come looking for me,

I’m just a ways down yonder—forgive me, I shed my clothes.

My feet are clean,

And skin is jaundiced—

Yellow as it suffers stagnation

It contemplates inaction.

My palms are cemented inside the earth

Where the wind chafes my knotted spine.

My breasts hang heaviest,

They sway me ‘round my sphere—tormented.

Here I suffer.

Now, I watch

—and I am planning your song of welcome.

I will free you my jailer if you bring me my spirit

And together we will pray and eat

From the earth that I am chained

We will dance, in tandem, on the streets of Ash

Where we will stir up sacred powder and

Find healing on foot.

The mystery is a goat

It begins with a kick,
Like the pierced belly
Trailing along the whiny music
Of the misunderstood first letter.
It was beneath the power of the slow beast--
(which boasted one kind of sanctity
that moaned infinite mornings
and milked marvels)
a human race
not unlike the thing that hung
and bleated universal depth
within the longitude of ahhh ahhhh's.

I wasn’t angry as it gurgled blue.
Batting at bee bee bees.
Or, maybe, I was
When I heard the cackle of the ee ee ee;
It bit after the revving of tongued absence.

And it was subtle
As it rose into the blow
Tortured like the last beyond,
Which wasn’t tortured,
When it smiled final—?

Premature rupture of the tap tap tap,
Begs us to return once more for the ominous breadth
of the suspended

Goat, grinning a dare
With immeasurable fortitude:
How long would it take for the hibiscus--
Even the hibiscus, to grow naked.

Exhibit A

Inside,
the clock, useless,
shows no mercy
to the watcher
behind layers of
glass walls
and open screens.

Outside, a sign:
"Photograph: Freedom"

Morning Tea

Desperate palms grasp

a singeing heat.

Better to burn—

than to feel

the first frost,

beneath dying feet,

latching onto mother’s green.

Diffident Winter

White flecks fell

abashedly

from up high.

I watched

unmoved,

by Her concession.