When The Fire Burns

I haven’t drank you for an hour,
or swallowed the sharks
swimming in your pale
manhood.
The road gobbled me up and
I do not miss your cancerous tongue,
all I smell is rubber
and all I want is the moon
to take me to bed
where I know what lives under
the sheets.

I know the blank ceiling page
and the rotation of the clouds,
I know how I cycle down,
a tornado scripture
burning my steeple to ash.

I translate you into languages unknown,
too complex for me to read,
the devil’s tongue,
a serpents spit,
a good muse when the fire rumbles
me to numbness.

Eden Aquatic

She wears a wet blue dress
and if you undress her
she is not vulnerable or
violated.  She is a curved
and proud body;
fertile.

He is molded. He is ceramic mannequins turning sick
against the sea.  Noon splits pavement and silicon swallows
in a frenzied gulp.

She is airless, something to know and fear.

When clouds steal our stars, she calls to the moon, carrying all of her love and loyalty back to shore,

while he steals her pearls
in the dark.

Blackball Grumbler

The disease in my brain is against all
this joy! A Blackball Grumbler who sculpts; Brute
hands. I am clay.

Morning. Beauty bows before me as I adapt
to sun luster. My feet go dancing
through crush puddles, smiling
at Emily’s “thing with feathers”.

I have been seized by desire, lacking nothing
of devotion,
trust,
love.
A free life will make nothing of
space for flies….

and the flies are swarming in;
screaming pollutants.

My Air!!
Oh God, My Air!

Inhale. Fly wings. Pinions of
pollution!
I choke on despair. Discouragement
wrapping Brute hands
around my skinny neck.

Last night, I met Concord on
a front porch. We knelt together
as if flies never existed.

But, it is today. Every last
night, on front porch kneeling,
is outlived by the sunlight
that feeds
flies to the Blackball Grumbler.

Paranoid Of A Possible Love

How can I be certain that you are real?
Each day, you are a noble rider; a sterling chain
seeking my affinity.
I want to cover myself in admission
while you are
straight,
natural,
throwing butterflies. At my feet

they become Ackee centers, flying up, up, around me.
Take a bite!, you say, It is only Vanessa and her Red Wings.

Jamaica made her crazy though, and
you present her plague
to me!?
Do you mistake her as beautiful wings
or
is this MY aberration?

Jamaican fruit do not raise her
butterfly appendages and flutter
about a young,
ripe woman.  They don’t!

This is truth or it is fallacy, crossing a frying pan.
And I am preparing to cook either
butterfly
or
poisonous exotic fruit!

In God We Trust

I’ve been digging through past lives for
months, searching
for fingerprints
in five feet, eleven inches of

deceit dust covering everything
I know! How many times did he shed his skin
back here?  Dead parasites are proof!

He was on the roof when it caved.
Climbed  over four hundred days
with water and
a bible.

He left spoons and mattress burns below him,
tribe familiars blossomed following his climb,
extending gratitude,
tribute!

And he climbed, praising God, until he reached
Grace,
humble resiliency…

We sang!
We cried and we sang!
We wrapped our hugs in packages with golden bows,
throwing them to a skeptical world! We danced, twirled
through moon phases, a
fantastic celebration!

Then, a sharp raucous!
Brusque thunder crushing eardrums!

Blood poured from our ears
as the noise devastated. Bible pages
fell like confetti over
our joy; a tearful,
thick pollution!

We cried!
We fell and we cried!
We wrapped our memories in boxes with golden locks,
sealing them, our treasures. Silently, we
remembered, our Requiem,
a tribute!

All we know is that he climbed,

and that underneath five feet, eleven
inches of his dust, it is

in God that we place our
rusted
trust.

Plastic Woman

I am taking this body in
on Monday.
It is not sick, but something
is wrong with it.
It did not grow how a woman is supposed to grow.

This body refuses to let a woman grow into a woman!

Mother was given enormous gifts. Too big!
Mother had a box that only
opened to herself. It is not Mother’s fault, though.
This body is a betrayer!
Ever since this body was young – forced to
lay down
with a man in a cement hall, it’s tongue burdened
with his suspicion – It should have been
beheaded for treason!

Oh well! On Monday, the sun will rise, (unless it does not), and
I will pick up this unloyal body
and throw it at the surgeon and he will
make it into a woman!