Jack The Ripper

Summer has changed. Shadows walk loudly
through the forest.
I never thought I could multiply this way, but
you help me heat the sun. Now I’m locked
in the middle of a road
that I don’t know,
your feet planted in front of my knees.

A door falls asleep. I meant it for life.
Poisoned fruit for useless tongues. Then your
taste proved me wrong.
I lay on my back
and watch the morning cry. I made the forest
lie, but you’ve been lucky.

Jack the Ripper crossed the river and hung
up my soul. Now I chase the dark for you.

Paper

Today I have a theme. I am cardboard, Earth truly is flat.
We lay, either way, recycled by
the Sun.
If you met him, you would know how he melts rocks
in one gaze. His superpower
is ignited –
and we all will lose.

I eat paper waiting for the fat.
I don’t know if I exist,
and does it matter?

To some, maybe. But then I hear the voices
rushing by something
imaginary.
I guess it’s all about being a pretty rock

on the way to the Sun? Forgive me. I am ignorant.
That’s just not enough.

This Sickness

Sickness comes at interludes, when
light burns brighter than
sun stars, when Anger dashes in
to catch the aftermath.

We battle for the scenery.
Touching base, both reaching for
the flag, for proclamation.

It is mine. This sickness is mine
to water or see to wilt.
I find no fault in either,
both are stars of polar regions,

imploding a billion light years away
from me. I will awake with sweaty palms,
the enemy dripping down my back.

I sit in the night, like a sauna,
saluting the grace of the Gods
for keeping what is meant for the skies
quietly away from these hands.

My medicine will come clockwise, sneaking up
on me, on little twinkling toes.
I never miss this time because there is no
better place to live or to die.

The Sun Chases The Moon

I spend a thousand blinks on old memories.
Each taste like cocaine
broken teeth, pressing
truth against my cheek, a cold shock

like this one – 
crying on the beach, sleeping in empty sea shells.
My mother eats her hands,
choking on emptiness,
on regret –  I understand,
then –

fireflies above my nose.
Bathing with my naked sisters,
collecting our shadows full
of sea water – and with a rush of the moon
a tip of years comes rushing back
and I choke, not on emptiness
but on regret, and I understand
then –

it’s the same sun that passed away,
roasting flames with me on
Sunday; and what does He do?

He moves.

 

The Devil Out At Night

Set me down,
behind full mountain
tops, make me burn
yellow and purple
hues, while
cold moons take
honesty away.

Turn on false Gods
who paint streets in
neon, let the devil out
to play.
Soak up the sweet aroma
of tonight’s subtle game.

Let it strip you
of your innocent skin…
And let the games begin.

THE LAUGH OF THE BEES

Swarming in with poisoned tips tucked
under innocence,
Nature’s vengeance dancing from
flower to flower,

no matter the color,
or the size,
or shape.

They are the thieves of each unique
fragrance,
and I wonder,

Do they watch for the tulip to open toward the warmth of the sun?
Do they wait for a rose to display her heart proudly?
Do they time each moment precisely
for attack?

The light of the sun is unconditional;
food for the flowers,
heat for the thieves,

and on those magical days,
when I am the Bells of Ireland,
exposed,
hungry for the warmth of my Sun,

they swarm in and attack!

 

The Twins

I have been brought a morning in bed,
yellow hands expand my eyes.
I rise as a vulture,
slender billed, nut beaked,
baking for a sun day.
The night salted me; an open wound,

the darkness delivered my twins.
She was duplicated, the little girl,
the golden daughter of heroin and hope,
she was on ice,
waiting for me, to grow.

It was a discrete joy, a time to prevent
a murdered life, to create
an identical heaven.
This time, she was mine.

But, the golden splatter was received
as the sun rose above
shadow boxes, as my blemished hands
become liver,

and we yellowed.
With tattered feathers, “we”
became “I”.
No duplication.
No sweet, heavenly replication
waiting for me, to grow.

The Desert

Weeds are sleeping. High Noon. The Desert opens its dry mouth.
Legs wobble over loose gravel, barely stirring the lethargic,
thirsty Earth.

The arid land has an asphalt tongue. I sit on it.
I melt to it.
A plastic shadow. Dried up. Destroyed

by the sun. Liquidated
by a watching light.

Red bugs have armor. Guardian’s of flight. Protection
from the land.
Turtles carry
shields,
and teeth. I evaporate.

An old actor rocks on a blue porch. He doesn’t
know the desert like I do. Never has sunk in its smoldering
August sand or been whipped by flaming winds.
He rocks.
Protected by shadows that do not melt, shadows
that create the desert.
He rocks.
Whiskey in hand.
He rocks.

I evaporate. Into the weeds.
To sleep.