Mineral Pick

I can’t guarantee that the sun

will shine in its arctic summer pose;

those clouds may come unexpectedly through

the pass that used to remain undiscovered.

Now we know a gaping valley exists

to draw cool air into us and exhale

warm, typhoon styling’s into our hairs

and halos, making us tropically embroidered.

Precious ores in the cliffs marking our door

resemble giant dogs for sale by the pound.

Which to select in a display case

muted by whistles and snorts of the sold.

Plucking harmonies with a mineral pick,

tonalities intertwine to play romance’s lick. 

Morning Walk

Drizzled down the melancholy morning streets:

gray, brisk, maintaining filthy runoff to the sea.

I stepped in puddles on my way.

I couldn’t wait for a walk sign

so I was brushed by four wheels and a tin can,

missing its century too: no blame.

Finally, my sopping, asphalt-muddied shoes

met with the sand stew, refuted the reservoir.

My eyes dotted, one each, with the morning drizzle. 

Low breezes played an Aeolian harp

between my ears and eyes: active temple.

Surely, the clouds can’t defeat the sun.

Mountains sizzling: cooled lava storms

erasing love’s flow by drowning.

“it’s not about killing myself.”  

The smoke billows inland: a warning

for the earthy ice cubes trapping moments

at superior altitudes: keep it cool.

I watch the circumventing sun

silhouette a brutish, war-torn storm;

dreams of invisible drainage set us apart.

March of the Vacuum

Tripped into the ocean
the brown part, being beaten
by sunset breezes
in March.

We're on our way to Spain,
and her Spanish is getting better.

Tripped into walls of elevators
twelve floors, none house my fine ride,
my infinite ride
in March.

"You two are pretty sexy,
I think this is my floor."

Tripped over chairs only recently replaced by
involuntary passions, acts of incorporeal movement
that's the red I like to see
in March.

April rains shower us doubly,
bathed in chills of March.
Lightning strikes and the power's off:
we sleep cleanly in the vacuum.

Oh Agony!

Oh Agony! Please depart
so one of us can sleep,
I know you won't sleep well alone
either. Tear me off so I can
dream.

Oh Agony! Dry my squinted eyes
I no longer tell well if the sun
is bright or the moon dim
and so I narrow my doors to
see.

Agony, my dear, come be my love
for this week and next,
passing that number there is
held no certainty, other than what I
hold.

Drop.

Agony, my dear, forgive my reckless
fingers and bulging wrists; they are your
afflictions driven into my palms
to force a selfish shallow sacrifice of
desire.

Drop.

Recurrence clenches fists into habits,
heart's pressure blocking out reason for stable change.
Stagnant rapids are what I desire now.

Agony, my fateful guilt and favorite train,
crash into faces that hold meaning
and cry into apathetic arms
bulging or not, you dissolve with a shake into
cumulus.

Oh Agony! Please!

Faces of Time

Blue pants and high heels
click-clack, "They're black."
she says.

Divots on cheeks
drip-drop: a puddle
for touch.

Pull lip and bite tongue
Gnaw-nah, "Never
too hard."

One day and one step
click-clack, closer
to death.

Chasms on perfect quartz
tick-tock, faces
of time.

Tick hands turn tock.
Each click brings clack.
Gnaw at touch nah.
Drip rivers drop change.

Worth

Stuck between the divinities
relentlessly divided
strike-slip fault lines
aimed at both ends
off the Earth.

Slip-strike my hand
between sets of thighs
pressure and heat welding
diamonds from coal
roses from daisies.

Gems force a spark
out of minute solar calories.
Reflections unexpectedly
lens flare the scenery.

How elegant 'twas!
Words were worthless.

Muddy grounds birth
new gardens of color
flat hues dying for language
to shape their petals
to kiss with their thorns.

Such lovely buds!
Anesthetized danger.

I can't feel being felt,
can't love being loved
Waiting was senseless.
Worth was wordless.

Sweet Retreat

As a wall or walkway
my bricks fill their form
and I, bobbing on cobbles
drink wine on a sharp leave.

Vanilla lead and powder
fills my function, warmth
in the form of roasted ham.

Tastes sweet of apple
wood chips for sale
as cheap as bubblegum.

Right adjacent glasses
hold shells of buds
to be sprayed only twice
per week.

Dropping glasses
petals run away on the floor
but I can't watch them run anymore.

Constancy and I

Busy brackets of organic architecture
Designed for the ends of stamen
And means of fruit to sweeten
Life as a bee.

So much sugar without lemons
Makes for sleepy sloppy work
And disinterest thereof.

Let their wings scratch the breeze
For no reason but sentience.

With the wings afloat, the fruit
Rots and contemplates virtue in
Selfishness. Hidden and forlorn
Petals curl.
And petals curl. (away from the sun-rain)
And petals curl. (apart from moon-light)
But never open.
There's no need, but restoration of habit.

Without nursing, the sun is relieved
Of the very reason it shines.
Holding a grudge against the bees
And the breeze and buds
It swallows and shines,
Gives and gives:

"My womb is no longer well-kept,
My fertility has disadvantaged
Constancy and I."

The prince is dead!

The Prince is dead; alas,
He's left the princess in her tower
Alone with rocks and metals.
She'll clip herself down to size,
Swallow them till she's dead too.

The Princess is sequestered
Time for the King to rest and act
Pensively haphazardly. Is she fit?
He'll punish himself if not,
Bury himself in books and reason.

His mistress is working the garden,
Her flowers look much better than
The grave they rest on.
Fertilizing a catalyst for a beginning,
The old Patriarch shall fall. Will fall.

Is falling below the pit of its stomach,
Tears welling in its puffy fucking face
Afraid of defeat, they'll have to start over.
The king secretly waited for his son to die,
Power isn't genetic, nor is compassion.

Resilience lies in youth, power in wisdom.
I hereby grant you keys to your kingdom.