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.
The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
My terrible snow covers my table,
Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,
the sound is muted.
Parisian plastic and crisp churches
Line the rain with loveliness.
At the edge of wet and dry reflections fly free.
I am painted with velvet sound,
eating my turpentine soup.
How lonely are the days baked in my face?
Insinuating sorrows imply
I haven’t earned my crags and gashes.
What a diamond life I lead
Under equally asymptomatic rain.
The hemispheres split apart like a ruptured balloon,
Miniature miracles and fog and Monday specials spilling out
Who tore my world open
for black widows, coupons, and dew?
I did not know the world was a water balloon
in the backyard of a playful, rogue child.
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.
Somber ideas finger my mind.
I always overcome them.
My mind is the zenith of razors,
My hair is the desire to die all of us want.
Uncompromising clocks are miserly with me.
Mondays are not miserable at all.
Monday is a week in infancy,
Filled with promise.
By Saturday there is so much regret.
I am chest deep in the wet of Wednesday,
My breath black smog.
The afternoon is another language.
I do not speak.
I was sewn for Sundays.
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?
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,
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.