if you don’t talk enough your thoughts
turn to grey matter rat kings
if you don’t care enough agony and worry comb
your hair for you
if your iron isn’t high enough it’s not because your
organs always turn to steel knives
God, I hope (I don’t pray) that if I have a wounded wing, and you couldn’t get to me, some bisexuals on a hot girl walk would stop traffic for me. I would hope that I could trust enough to take the step off the curb and waddle my way to you. If it was you, stuck on the island flightless, I wouldn’t take off. I can wait.
The horned moon rises
A Golden Bull
Draped in black lace
The color of candlelight
That’s why knives draw me
I like to be scared
Or I enjoy respect
Something is shreaking
like an old oven pushed across the floor
The metal rubbing it’s self musically
like crickets legs
A violin or accordian
“B.B’s” latched on to calling me “Feral
but its too close to Geraldine Jerryl
Some of the many ways my name has been pronounced
They tell me that water from the center of the earth has been discovered, some plasma that’s also water, and that there’s three times more of it than what we thought there was
What has she killed again
that is making that noise?
It sounds like an illusion
Like the cool air washing over us this evening
The heat has been braining us
And even passing meteors
are lobbing great daytime fireballs
At us.
What information we once held private was
bought and sold
But leaving your phone in your bag at a party
is hippy level rebellion.
Occasionally, a blast of music from The Green Lantern, a corner block perpendicular.
The dead worms have all formed letters and I just keep seeing esses. I earlier mused, that I ought to change my name to Liv Feral. These special letters could be l and f.
It sounds 90s AF
Like two different Googoo Dolls songs
The radios of passing traffic
fold into it like
an alterpiece
your hip
is that last curve home
with an Armageddon
crimson sunset full blast
gold dripping
across the leaves
just like
the magnetic forces of the earth
that guide birds
on the way home
my fingers follow
the traces of heat
to your
horizon of palms in the blazing
sun with salted lips
rimmed with my name
drink in your gaze
and bathe in the tension
the being next to you
pretending to be calm and collected
knowing what we really are
entangled vibrations
a chorus now now now
and a single fevered drive
right on the edge
because
baby
we’re
80’s
forever
An empty, blue vase stares at the world from
behind the glass. The owner of the vessel
cares not about filling it, so it sits
on the windowsill full of
nothingness. The realm
of possibility dead
before a first bud.
I weep because I
care so much.
hand to hand
eye for an eye
damn for a damn
lie for a lie
man to man
unkind for a kind
hand to hand
eye for an eye
gram for a gram
lie for a lie
woman to man
are we just alive
to die?
This week,
has been nothing short of a successful disaster.
I’m beyond grateful,
but oh so exhausted and worn to a new frazzle.
So many good things happening all at once,
but there’s never enough time to enjoy them.
I’m ready for a breakthrough and
a long overdue drive into the sunset.
When?
I’ll have to find time on the calendar.
Soon…but sadly, it won’t be today.
There once was a nut from Lexington
who kept confusing haiku
with a limerick.
There once was a nut from Lexington
who kept doing the same thing–
wanting new results.
There once was a nut from…
you know the rest of their story
really.
There once was a poem
and it shook the poet some.
Call it Vexington.
“Let the bucket of memory down into the well…”
William Stafford
I remember a time, not so long ago,
when the well of my life seemed fathomless,
when my bucket was not already so full
of aging dreams and aching bones.
Still, it does not seem time to set the bucket aside,
and so I send it down–
I pull up Monet’s lilies; they are bending
around curved walls, and I think,
how I long to see those delicate blossoms for myself!
but L’Orangerie is so far, and I am old now,
and insidious fear sets in
and paralyzes feathery hope,
but
I must try again, I think;
this time I pull up
lilies of the valley, their delicate ivory bells
nodding and bowing on green slender stems;
they are summoning the hours
and they promise spring and, yes, resurrection,
but strange snows have covered any semblance of rebirth,
and besides, dreams come and go, and the only
lilies of the valley I ever knew disappeared years ago,
plowed under,
returned to earth, which, I suppose,
is something of a foreshadowing,
something perhaps of a resurrection.
One more time, I think, as I send the bucket down again,
and this time pull up out of that water,
dark and cool and mysterious–
yet unexpectedly familiar–
a hyacinth of ultramarine blue and an angel, iridescent
like Gabriel’s wings in Fra Angelico’s Annunciation—
Such Unknowing!
Until I turn, and, gazing into the water,
as if in some quantum moment, see
the I am of it all–
