POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…
I have an axe
with hearts gashed
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote