The Desert Is Infected pt.2

My eyes settle blue on boulders,
on the desert.
She doesn’t know I am here.
She doesn’t know how I watch her,
or how I crawl with
tortoise in patient crawl or
how I soar with her carnivorous
vulture.

She is like woman,
like God
and sperm
and sea
all at once.

Her magic is dry and alive.
What is
to hate is to love.

She acts like death
but her surface is in force.
Her dry stomach spreads thin.
Her hot mounds curve Earth.
Her treasured liquid leaks from
her spike covered fruit.

She is dangerous.
She does not fear exhausted corpse’.
She swallows inside out,
spits it out and keeps it
for company

and when  buzzards come
and when  flies come
and when  suns change course

she will suck dry
hard bones
deep within her sand
burying them
in her desert forever.

Earthquakes And Eruptions

I live with a turtle
in cold corn field rows. He is hard.

Last time we visited a moon together,
he took my pen, his tricky art,
pliable concern caked dirty under
turtle nails.

He has not always been
a beast. Once, he had wings.
He hovered above sandstone.
I thought of his death. Afraid.
He would be ghost treasure feeding
corn field soil.

He was a well-made horse. Gallant.
Reinforced.
I bridled him. Caged him.
The Big Blue Marble called to him
with a voice
of adventure,
of freedom.

But, he was kept.
Trained.

I nailed his shoes to the dirt. One day,
I felt the Earth crumble beneath my
dainty feet.
Earthquakes and Eruptions.
The horse ran free!

I cried for a year,
spent one more in guilt,
then another in admission..

until, one firewater night brought him
back to me. He stood like a horse.
He spoke like a horse.
He drank like a horse.

But, he was not a horse.
His eyes had become chicken neck yellow.
Shifty.
He tried to stand as a horse,
but he startled
and ducked,
tucked himself inside.

A turtle. With a shell.
In a field.
Cold.
Hard.
Taking my pen because he hasn’t any thumbs.

It Isn’t Just Injurious To Me

Each morning is a petal plucked
from precious
time.
Bright red petals painted in
fear, planted
right
side up. In sick sand,
death gardens
grow
thieves with love leaves,
drowned in
injury.

Each morning, I am a thief
taking,
taking,
taking,

one more petal,
one more bright red fear,

plucking at love to drown it in injury.

Fire Juice

My mouth broils as he Ogre’s around
our apartment. Things,
things,
little things,
severely minuscule things
are everywhere,
out of place,
unclean.

His small feet stomp inflammation
into our feeble floors.
His small hands run away from
his body
to find me,
to strangle me!

I watch from underneath
couch cushions, where crumbs of
yesterday lay sullen until
they are found out later
and
sucked away by his mean vacuum cleaner.

He calls,
he calls me out…

angry laughter speeds from his
black callousness to
my eardrums. I hear them explode.

He stomps with plague.
He stomps to me. Ripping me from
haven, his touch ignites my mouth
filled with fire juice

and
all I can do is spit!

Lynch Law

I live angrily as
a nest keeper.  Of giant twigs,
stressed circles, cradled
meadow sprigs –

a sharp bed intrusive to Slumber-
land. A rude
carnivore bites at my tanned
leg lines.

Once, I rolled toward
nest Head,
Bed Bug…

his bullish limbs
clutched my merit,
kindred as
orange and red compass.

We slammed hammers to habit,
congested air particles with
polluted hate vomit, we
danced each other into cement,
off skyscrapers to meat cleaver sidewalks.

Until, nests became pine boxes.

Boulders rolled in,
crushed my nose into
lines of dead life, I inhaled.

With everything I had, I inhaled, as
shards of pine darted
from his eyes.
Lies followed, grabbing each arm, lifting
my body
through gray skies. Tears wobbled out mortified
ducts,
raining small crux drops

over orange-red meadow sprigs,
ambiguous  layers shed under liquid
suffering.

Now, I live angrily as
nest keeper,
whistling out  at dead meadow
straw to rope Lynch Law in,
Justice for Him.