Dominated by a Day

Advertisements

My Shadow’s Nation

An ocean flutters from a flagpole,
A 3×5 slate blue ocean with dolphins leaping in and out.
This is the emblem
Of the country of my shadow.
My shadow is a princess.
She warbles,
Her tax code a filing system
Of feathers.
Beneath her flag I am wet.
My vision bordered by swaths of salt.
Here in Kansas oceans are special occasions,
And many rally around her flag,
Though they cannot swim.

Once Bitten

Fireworks of pain in my fecund teeth
Advantageous chalkboards fill with unmoored drawings
In kid script
Of dragons and lagoons and devils.
Open red. See the wet birds waddle out cheep cheep.

Alarming threads sew me a bag for my head
In this titillating twilight.
Once I was 21 and I buried myself by a birch tree.
Then instantly I was 23 and I was born,
Having gestated under a plaid lamp.

I can barely bite but oh how I am bitten!
Hurt a cataclysmic light in my eyes.

Lost Colonies

Lost colonies.

Attacking cotton balls.

The water stretching over my year.

Serendipitous discover of disease.

An island with hideous creatures of smoke.

Aggressive violins singing in a corner I can’t forget.

I have rotting songs in a heap behind the house.

Little mimes are jerking to life in the detritus.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.