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 Tree in a Bubble

A tree growing gnarled

inside an intrepid bubble

floating up toward a windmill made of tulips.

How Dutch my dreams are these days

And I always go Dutch with them.

I will pay for my own lead and bread

if dreams will pay for theirs.

What happens to me when I float without roots,

a microcosm of germs and stardust rising toward

my personal zenith?

Black Pink

Black pink

 

Space in a coma.

Sugar up and down.

Sour Sundays stay out of sight.

 

We are not as rich as we think we are.

 

Yet I have an untried umbrella,

a love of picket fences,

and black pink.