Delicious Sunday,
absent of the jam of people,
of masquerade.
My kite lifts off fevered shoulders,
enters frothy clouds to
mourn buried dreams and fly.
Asleep, on grass waves, I surrender
to stillness,
expecting great ends to
fall upon me.
I have won no roses
by thievery, I am oiled,
scented by the White snake
who coils her spirit as an
act of love.
If I was a child, I would
have expected this,
but not today. Not in
these years.
Note keys float out
swamp leaves, slit open,
hang out by green string.
Black notes,
A, B, C, float dark nightly,
lightly
through a
new moon’s ear piece.
A mad need, I am
bad seeds
planting roots
in last years’ moon beams.
Spread eagle.
Tongue tied,
sublimely.
The serene swamp sings.
Wants me
buzzing,
dripping golden honey
with springs yellow bees.
I asked the love beat
to swim,
stark,
bare feet
jealous oak trees watching
each move
melodically down stream
whipped cream
skin
dipped in a breeze.
A wet dream
for an
old, dry oak tree.
I am laying in wet cement, gray
mud
blanket gobbling up my plague.
It is thick like me,
like the twenty years of
plaster inside.
Everything is hardening.
Kidney.
Liver.
Fallopian Tubes.
Guts.
Heart.
I have been treated like a statue.
It isn’t hard to
be still,
motionless. Erect.
Allowing curious wanderers to
make up my background,
my story.
A man brought oranges
to paint
me with. He was a soft liquid.
I was set to stone.
He sliced his moist fruit,
dripping
sweet citrus over my rough skin, melting
my rind.
Away, away I went with delicate fruit.
A new sculpture.
A beautiful, fluid seed.
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