My breasts awoke in my chest.
My skin felt the need for speed.
I could hear my coffin creaking open
at the far end of my life
I entered the economy of power,
built my heavy house
September tells me a story
of children made only of fog
or of the perfect arrangement of fallen leaves
right before the breeze blows.
Some children wanted to sing
and others to shine.
But children shimmer
and then are gone –
sear sucker left on the ground rumpled.
They grow up,
move into cities of wine,
houses of immaculate deception.
Ghoulish women crowd dark corners.
Light glistens on my breath.
There is an evil menagerie beyond the gate.
I am dancing motionless.
There are many cathedrals waiting
to be unearthed in my garden.
I want to remember exhaustion
I hate Complacency
and the way he makes everything pale
I’m packed and ready
to follow the ghosts and learn
what they know,
but I dread the low opacity
The road curls into
a ring I wear on my finger.
The humid spring air squeezes through
my open window,
Somewhere out there I am a baby
Writing great epistolaries in brooding vomit.
In the center of a field,
my senses plundered
by clouds of venom
I can’t go back to the day I left
My universe of birth
and I don’t want to.
I rinsed the dust of it from my hair.
I glow pure yellow into the waking calendar,
designing my own destruction from
The graph is depressed,
its lines dragging down
into the gutter.
Do you hear Wall Street shiver,
Main Street shutter?
I feed the red line from my hands.
An IV from me to a neighbor
when I buy a frivolity and they ring me up.
It is not enough;
my fingers are shreds of paper.
Our island is sinking into this sea.
Who can we grab
that we won’t drown
Pulling on a gold that won’t come.
I have a card.
You have a card.
Our leader has a card.
We have no eyes.
Hear the world run.
A little thunderstorm runs around my feet
Then skitters under the sofa.
He is one of many.
I see them in my cabinets sometimes
and once walked into millions of them in the attic.
A feral book leaps off his shelf and
onto the lonely sofa I no longer sit on
because I cannot linger.
My disease watches me all the time,
nestled in my skull.
It will attack me from the side
Rip my smiles open and empty them out.
I work all day to stay on the move.
Light is always trying to hide behind the future
so I am constantly pushing millions of beams forward.
The shy scent of water cloaks me
as the desert outside the window searches for me.
More bones are always needed.
My disease sings.
My disease plays.
My disease paints the back
Of my eyelids with sand.
The thunderstorms feed
on my crumbling tears
She harvests roses,
The world watches her sleep.
Birds peer through her window
like so many anxious dignitaries in a
court of intrigue.
She wears the scent of sun
in a vial around her neck.
He will hunt her better nature.
color his prayers with her name.
This is yearning –
to be jealous of the air
because it can touch her everywhere at once.
In his suit of wool and guilt
he watches her pick bouquets of breeze,
spinning in a plain of demolished satisfaction.
At night, he whittles mathematics down
to an immaculate paste of 2
and rubs it over his body
Tomorrow he will wait by the light
and draw her in with his want song.