Saturday, March 21, 2015

All the Faces Shaded by Evening Maples

Checkered blue curtains undulate in the light spring
breeze, carrying twilight kickball screams sore from
macadam shins skinned up to a second floor screen,
taunting the feverish in close quarantine whose rashy
grasp implores but cannot hold a tiny pine that stays
deep with inchoate needles pale green and yellow in a
hidden hole drilled some days past under swirled teal
tile pried loose where the glue was hastily misapplied.
The brown scab innocence within its safe grey circle
is absent-mindlessly flicked. A pale sharp half-moon,
it surprises with a red eruption right before bedtime.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Somersaults

Little flowered dress will not go round off
where bare soles find solace in pale blades
of green. Gospel scales under the umbrage
of prior hammered drums still soar despite

the drifting solar influence. If clouds bluing
had souls, and maybe they do, then drifting
would be this innocence. 

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Something I forgot to say

A check from the ice and snow covered north
signed in purple ink that I cannot in faith sign
arrives into the temperate zone of my palms
waved in a slight northern invasion of sunlight.

Once, in the freezing rain, with breath expired
in an aspiration of slippery delight, I closed the 
shiny door of an emerald car, mirrors befogged
in anticipation of a warm slide into icy blackness.

That icy blackness never happened despite the
false certainty that grows in winter that spring
will never erupt in green shoots from the black.
A wee leek curled in slumber can be coldly cruel.

Now, the winnings from another life unwrapped
scream from a previous scratch that left little
crumbies on the quarter and the oak marbled
table, marbles gone but the crumbies remain.


Thursday, January 1, 2015

Let's call it square

So much happens in the window within a window
when you believe in glass and northern pine frame
rectangles for the view. Look away if you can start
to see the curliecues of paint painted long enough
ago to white curl in the autumn mist. Outside, the
maples turn so fast from green to red and orange 
that the frame cannot be frozen even if your own
breath was misting so. White frames be lying too.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Looking for an echo

Play some doo-woop when I close,
earth angel a cappella into sixteen
candles overdose, looking for one
echo reverbing into soul complete.

Sweet sounds soar off subway tiles,
a white and grimy womb for rebirth
scrubbed by angelic harmonies neat,
little Frankie's tomb is not plumb yet.

Friday, December 5, 2014

If within a nested set so brightly painted

If within a nested set so brightly painted
the faces seem a bit contrived, with rough 
rouge ooze to thickly rush a thin disguise,
smiles too bluish to fool a sampling mind

with gnarled fingers to grasp the tropic root 
rolling from the antipodes soft into laughter
while a warm sunset inflames a viral dance.
If distant orange circles encircle, and snakes

in tropical spirals around frozen glances twirl,
the northern lights slither diamond and yellow
while on the lunar child a sneaky goat awaits.



Sunday, November 9, 2014

Too many sirens

After tales of brave Odysseus passed, too many sirens 
still blown down Central to pass Magnolia, silent again 
at Rosalind. Some poorboy called the mayor before I 
bought some wax to plug the only way I hear. Heard 
one sad guy after the blues had swept the clean streets 
clean again: he was going to shit in a cup and leave it 
as his legacy, on the street. On a one-way street, one 
of the sirens, piercing loudly, said no way, go south.