I Live

I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn

taken the wind for a weekend lover,

argued with the reeking river.

I live in a castle of mattresses

and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.

Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,

doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.

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World of Color

A world of color is rich,

is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.

What I need is a glass of hot pink,

an elixir of glowing purple,

a tincture of pool blue,

languid and electric.

My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale

on my bedside table

while a documentary on contemporary

art stabs me in shades of black and white,

Sound muted.

Clamor Clatter Calamity

Clamor clatter calamity

a huge purple spill

generous to an idea getting drunk in the corner.

I am an absence of air.

Paris writes me telling me not to come.

Many things have fallen

into the gaping O of love.

 

My sick senses stretch like a violin note over

a ghostly concert hall.

Halls are caverns.

I have a hall inside my city

And he waits there.

He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,

I the suction of quicksand.

Beauty and Lust

Beauty has frost bite and is just

going to live that way.

The stench is aggressive.

I have been living whichever way is out of sight

from Age and Lust.

Beauty and I go way back

to a year I only remember as a pile of sugar to play in.

Skin scrubs keep Age away.

 

The truth is Beauty and Lust have never met,

though some think they are a couple.

Lust’s eyes are inverted in her face,

her longings contorted and her hearth

cold.

She

She is stove-mouthed

and thinks hideously.

Between her teeth are scrolls

from cities asleep.

Death cartwheels on my lawn

mostly to impress her,

And because in his spare time he has a pinwheel fetish.

After dark she will write my eulogy and

I will thank her

and never know her name.

Marilyn Monroe as a Housewife

A congress of confetti has decreed

every wind must blow up.

The ground breathes.

I look like Marilyn Monroe as a housewife,

standing in my yard with my dress billowing around me.

My husband sees me with his eyes shut.

Hands open.

The hours I have given him clump between his fingers like cat litter

I will wash them with aloe.

I will dry them in silence.

Our daughter has been sequestered with the sequins

and she has sewn a shining dress.

See her straddle the breeze.

She learns from me.

A Jealous Math

The floor is a guess,

is clear like water.

It is raining June in my hair.

My clothes are brimming with butterflies.

 

I am a sour after note to their beauty.

I was born to rise

to shatter sky.

 

Instead a jealous math

embalming me

 

 

Fills me with mud.