This clock is orange and extravagant

like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon

and I have a child.

In a clock,

wild excess is forgiven.

The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,

spends forever buying contraband at every border.

My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.


Burning Suburbia

Blue light is not chasing

my soul.

Shades of slate and gun metal pursue me

in a way the other women wrapped in their profiles and friends

would understand more than they want to believe.


Our spirits dream while we say,

How much? That’s too much.

I have to have her there by 3.

We need to get away. It is never just us.


In the suburbs I drive over hillock after hillock

again and again,

for bread and milk,

my fingers searching beneath my skirt for something so dirty it is clean,

so corrupt as to be pure.

The Sea Under My Hair is Hungry

Seasons of saffron,

of fairness.

Faucets of Holy water,

of an audience that never claps.

Beauty is never exotic,

Growing everywhere.

The plague is in my closet.

My shoes are conjurers,

My eyes lakes we and your father

went fishing in.

You caught tap shoes.

He caught concurrence wriggling like a worm.

I caught the cable of an elevator

And slid down into myself.

There are no lights down here.

The sea under my hair is hungry.

Dive in.

I’m watching from the bottom.

Sweet Blue West

The sweet blue west calls me.

A vision of endless land is seared into my eyes.

Why take this seasick sailor

and set her in the lovelorn Prairie

where emptiness is everything

and loneliness is nothing,

only to drop her from a thunderous cloud

in a crowded coastal city

to drown?


Lost Colonies

Lost colonies.

Attacking cotton balls.

The water stretching over my year.

Serendipitous discover of disease.

An island with hideous creatures of smoke.

Aggressive violins singing in a corner I can’t forget.

I have rotting songs in a heap behind the house.

Little mimes are jerking to life in the detritus.


I Live

I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn

taken the wind for a weekend lover,

argued with the reeking river.

I live in a castle of mattresses

and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.

Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,

doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.

A Dream of Color

The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,

like love from the mother of indifference.

I long for electric blue,

sweet pink,

royal purple.


My terrible snow covers my table,

the bed.

Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,

the sound is muted.