The Rabbit's Grave

The Rabbit's grave is
shallow and bitter
with bones exposing innocence twine
that pull and bloat the growing mind.

The house is content,
its tea-kettle laughters,
its dreary permanence
leaves the door
half-way open.

And the stench from the garden
pervades the house,
the nostalgic manacles of time
Embedded within
that skeleton.

Flowers from the morning
explode in; welcome spring!
the yellow shades of bliss.
But you, you
already buried it.
Let it rot in the abandoned pasture
to be devoured by hungry prey

It makes no difference.

the grass refused to grow this year;
Leaving the grave
Untouched and bare.

The Mid-West

America's needles and drunken
propositions always
awaken during fall fashion,
when the leaves change from
green to orange
and fall like spring rain.
During the high tide of traffic,
I used to run my hands
across the car window
and watch water droplets dance and parade
outside like tiny ballroom dancers.
Autumn's breath was thick like smoke
outside the hotel.
but I remained,
ostracized from those indifferent eyes.
On one vacation trip,
The mid-west stung me
like boiling water
with all it's pastures
and patchwork fields.
I collected light in those starry fields
where nights were unlike
those in the south;
family stood
around a wide, open table
to talk about progress,
to laugh out loud
and be unaware of future wanderings

I like days..

I like days when my heart beat is like the amplitude of the bass,
days where everything is readable, and I am in love with the quiet sentiments of
love and honesty-when everything is right, and nothing collapses under the weight of
indifference and insolence.
I like days that are smooth like a stream forming infinite progressions,
days that move in perfect harmony,
days where a falling feather
fills me with ecstasy and an overwhelming adoration
crawls up my spine.

Snow Man

As always, winter's hands grasp me
and pull me under,
beneath her white, calloused ice,
I fumble.
And try to make amends with the snowman,
whose death will come when spring descends,
for I'm fertile; bred for excellence.
My beauty breathes within my genes,
like an embryo within a freshly seeded womb.
perhaps the sun will melt the snow,
making the road more clear--
or perhaps the heat will rise up in flame,
and engulf me entirely.

Effigy, mourn for no one

Effigy, mourn for no one.
Not this hollow peace, this obsidian shade,
love's unfolding morose crusade;
a sapience lost, among this quadruple two,
Who arms themselves with the limbs of flowers?
Tragedy strikes at birth's first hour.
in tombs so shallow,
drenched in gold,
they find their fears
face down, untold.

Oranges and Apples

Oranges and apples
live like the Mona Lisa
in the homes of house-wives
and terrier dogs.
With napkins folded,
into squares of perfection;
happy little roof
shelters the unseen.
The monsters under their children's beds,
come out, speak clearly, drink tea,
smoke a cigar.
While business casual is just
adornment like the bowls of tangerines.

A Tulip was I

• A tulip was I, walking down Spring-farm,
  and in June I was removed.
  Dazed from summer's humid glow,
  and the sun-kindled flames
  that were released from my icy hands.
  For I flourished in the month of December,
  with frost hanging from my limbs,
  I looked up, to see children's faces,
  ready to pick my body, food-colored stem,
  a life within a vase--no life I desired,
  so I hid my petals from their glares;
  and they shouted the pattern of my name.
  And as I wilted, and my softness was no more,
  turning blue, I saw the window-cat
  sitting blankly on the edge,
  In his mouth, a tulip--my desired end.

Take Me Into the Night

• 
  
  Take me into the night
  And these fractures will be a blur among our lunacy;
  the moon does speak,
  does touch me with a softness like silk-brocade:
  France, 1779.
  Welcome me among the city streets,
  where familiar faces blur into one another:
  rain in morning light.
  I will trace your palm
  with my delicate fingers--
  will speak of poetry, these words,
  you will keep deep inside your troubled mind.
  Take me into the night
  Opulent voices await us at the shore line,
  harps, wings, and white waves,
  let them wash over us,
  Or drown us, if they may.
  We shall meet in graveyards;
  A funeral for love's cessation.
  Take me into the night
  For although I wish not to leave this
  self-imposed world of mine,
  my boots sink in the mud of this land,
  and we are a balancing act--
  trapeze artists standing on thin wire,
  but oh, how the day stretched itself
  into perfect harmony.
  and oh, how the bird's song was played like wedding bells
  in my mind.
  Take me into the night.
  Where love does sew itself onto my unfinished edge,
  where love does smell of smoke and
  antique paper.

For Jeff

Candle flames--lamplight nights,
air-tight sealed hands,
zest of summer--inhaling humid air:
alcohol, waves, and Sarah's smile.

Summer--dead with rotting light,
sun shines, but no rays,
Now, Pale face--porcelain body breaks.

Sapphire eyes--a moment's truth
too real like sunrise's intent
of keeping us together:
and we watched it set.

Heat--always too much,
unlike introspective dandelion winds of March,
clothes were minimum,
my body in your soft hands.

Mornings at the door--
pleasure in sapphire sheets,
our legs entangled--
puzzle pieces--stoic and wet.

Twenty miles to Venice--
picturesque ocean,
fluffing waves to the shore,
and their homeless ostentation.

Talks of joined souls--
the crabs of my mind
moved silently along the rocks--
waves began to over-lap

The moving star--
Clearly it shined,
between my systematic eyes,
and the roar of a thousand oceans.

Clock's Persistence

Seconds pass into oblivion--
the space between matter and metaphysical realm.
Once I stepped there,
into the slippery dimension,
to say, "Look! The fragments on the wall! They mean nothing,
nothing at all"
And Escher painted recursion--the twisted stairs of time.
But Kafka wrote the words--
prodigy of entangled minds.
Like electrical wires,
serpents, whose skin was smooth and black,
Minutes, pass me by,
and I am a ring upon time's floor,
perpetually moving to the rhythm of breath,
And when they were gone, I said, "Look! The wood began to splinter! But It means nothing,
nothing at all,
to clock's persistence; time's transient wall.