To call it swimming is weird

The day I overdosed on anchovies was a cloudy day
with winds from the east that purple and lime green
blustered while a lame purpose from the east swayed
twin palm's golden birthing into that dictionary scene. 

A little cow funk evaporated through the clear divide,
enough to color my now room from a cool white vibe
to something more like blues ascension in crazy time.
(When salty little fish grow wings you'd better sigh.)

Skipping, skipping, New Morning and only had groove
enough to smell the chocolate and crave salty legumes.
A taste is sweet enough when the skillet starts to move,
little black specks in your roux: a solemn hint of tombs.

Bass lines make no issues with glass that so easily slides,
down in a crypt I hearded crimes from crispy fins inside.

One Afternoon

One of the greatest pleasures in life
is to lie skin to skin with another human being.

To feel hot breath on your neck or
to breathe hot breath on the neck of another.

To feel your hairy legs wrapped around hairless legs
or to feel hairless legs wrapped by your hairless legs
or to feel your hairless legs wrapped by hairy legs
or to feel hairy legs wrapped by your hairy legs.

To feel the flat red flush of a heaving breast.

It's just a little longer, is all

First in the barnyard, I noticed the brown:

When the young pretender entered it was bad
but the blood was already washed away. I heard
the boss scratching, ready to crow at morning sun.

I looked up at stucco, a shadowed swept low arc,
hands soon to expose every crack and the housing
of legs that despised the sun, seeking a fey succor
before the rays bleached a little joy away for good.

It's just a little longer, is all.

When mother came to town

After the leaf filled pool had drained
there was still the linger of her smile
for the rotund boy attempting to sun
in a day of intermittent showers that

threatened to ruin her coif into damp
grey curls redolent of Grecian ruins.
He was a gladiator once, pride of her
loins, conquering all that she loathed.

Now her blue deck shoes curl and she's
chilled in the shadow of a low arc'd sun.

When she moved in feline grace, the mind
only thought of nails, orange came normal 
against the brown drift of floating leaves.

One Purple Iris

Blah blah would be a cogent way to blah
but whose mind doesn't tire of it all the time.

But I heard something about a mud bubble
which mattered greatly. The mud swallowed
everything. And it splattered everything too.

To crawl out into the warmth was to view
a miniature purple iris opening at dawn.

The mud swallowed everything but a crawl
out mattered. A dewy iris purple in the sun

was all.

Sometimes in Autumn

Iconic in the autumn breeze, 
she smirks before the train. 

If another leaf falls, 
a rake would come in handy:

good gloves on the handle 
might protect the tender skin.

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.