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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A Dream of Color

The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,

like love from the mother of indifference.

I long for electric blue,

sweet pink,

royal purple.

 

My terrible snow covers my table,

the bed.

Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,

the sound is muted.

Dark House

Cruddy smells flake off the house and I know I shouldn’t be here.

No one has in faithless year after faithless year.

Knock it off.

I see you filching my backup plans from my purse.

God I wear blue well.

My soul is transparent like the cleanest lake.

 

I am without my numbers and shapes,

sewn from cotton fields.

I’m a doll you can love, hate, dissipate.

Art History

Quiet art history is just as dazzling as fireworks,

the artist’s eyes fluttering open in the morning an explosion of a bomb.

See the veracity of the paintbrush,

The verifiable anguish in colors prone to roam the white space,

the place where luck dies.

What arguments have painters had with invalid ideas,

high on their laudanum and making no sense to anyone but

the artist, a doctor for chartreuse concepts that long to be a lively lime.

What canonical cloudscapes inspired the Sistine chapel?

What childish memory provoked David?

A Love Like October

Singing into the bush

a lilac on a lark.

A love like October,

orange and fast.

The lilac has a heated language,

a boiling pattern of speech.

Frost is mute,

Abused,

Sinful.

The lilac leans toward the Bush

A waxy, evergreen sun,

needing shelter.

Pumpkins fight with lilacs.

Frost is the winner who takes all.