The rusted nail turned so tightly at the corners
that the driftwood frame moaned and cracked to brittle pieces.
A sepia-toned paper with water marks of unknown liquid blurring faces
broke free of the chipped glass pane,
a fragile provenance keeper,
and drifted to the kitchen table,
transfixed in a slow motion glide through a breathless operation of oxidation.
Thus her transformation was complete.
At the start of spring I open a trench in the ground,
The still cold earth creaking open with a moan of forgiveness,
For the life would start breaking through the soil in breaths.
I put inside the manuscripts and folios that I created and
Raked over with judgment throughout the bitter solitude of winter
And books I read and forgot once the words left my sight.
My fascination with meanings left me lonelier than the
Reality that I was deep into a dark wooded place,
Where I wrote for the stars and for a dead lover
Lost between two planes, one always with me
And one nestled in another hemisphere.
From Verdejo to Ripe
Me crumpled in a forgotten pocket
Who are you to sigh should my
Tears crack mirrors behind a suggested bottle? It
Tastes diverse in smoky rhythm from verdejo to ripe
When he used to love my feathers, now brittle
So aches couldn’t grow vines by dim lights.
Too-dry soil’s metamorphosis suffocating
Into something other than my skin’s knight
Talking constellations, you caught my gossamer dust
In your carpenter’s fingertips, crying “amore amore.”
The essence drives a kiss to sterling facade just
Before last call to the ladies denies
The “maybe just this once” of wings.
Baby pink v-neck molded cashmere
Informs each entered room, “Hello, I’m here.”
Seasoned scotch on the rocks, lead crystal snifters
Crack and echo “nice to meet you” misters.
We debate over bacon-wrapped water chestnuts who’s better
Picasso, Sargent, Matisse, van Gogh, or Whistler.
Apparently a vagina makes me always already post-modern;
Too bad they don’t know you can’t out-bullshit a bullshitter.
Nodding, smiling I ponder the chances of fiber
Hidden in flaming desserts before sipping seltzer water.
Fuck all anorexic post-modern bitches in their
Strategically placed haute couture and aviators.
By the ropes, I catch my breath through a nicotine inhaler,
Wishing to illuminate this mausoleum theater,
And slip way into midnight’s sirens before lovers’
(Past and present) specters enter.
Wilting to Chopin
Jimmy Choo boots spike forgotten grapes
Into Chianti mulled with bloodlust for burns.
Where were you when the dragon pierced pride’s womb
And crushed Grandma’s reincarnated hands against keys
I knew better than chrysanthemums wilting to Chopin?
I should have remembered the cubic zirconium;
No one will buy diamonds for a cactus, milked of all dust.
Acoustic rivers hum
My empty octaves into
The simplest confusion
Your eyes shadowed my
Fumble not knowing
It’s never been locked
And you were never a key.
There is no interdisciplinarity between you and me;
An attempted escape from this landscape
Damp with uncertain humidity stirs limbs
To twine colder leaves and hushed questions,
Frantic for what? Truth is lying here with us
Deep in thickets. I know you feel nothing in the space
you touch; don’t fear the frostbite of mutual dismay,
I have already awakened my vertigo to stand still in light,
Away from apologies for incompatible seasons. To you
I will always be the fall, just pining for your powder.
This Old Brass Bed
Here I lay under a wedding ring quilt
No-one I know made wondering
“how many ancestors made love
in this old brass bed” stripped and painted
ivory to match the shirt I ironed and only
thought of you, not steam or straightness.
Where are you when I lay in this bed
Of mountain homes and Montana pines
Pollinating my blood to grow a more
Lonely heart best broken and kept secret.
I promenade through segregated bricks
My too pink stones, not pine opals,
Companions I never asked for amid Aspens
Left out of mountain time zones.
Autumn blazes life to unknown minutes
Reminiscent of soil’s last breath
A warning away, the raven’s beaks
Pecking an unforgiving ground
Frosted, as I am, in morning.
The mantle clock chimed a time
That never was, so how did I hear it?
Living in paper mache stars
Hanging by fishing line you touched
once, or was it twice, before touching
Peach fuzz and curls clipped away
From a damp neck?
Time alone makes me paint nothing.
You are my canvas and you are nothing
I can capture with anything but stars on strings.
Impossibility is my only friend when you leave
And I go crazy hearing silent chimes
Picturing you smile for your dinner,
Your wine, your pillow, and peace of mind.
Long bottlenecks with limes and all woman hips
Upset the blue eyed equilibrium in the darkest corner
Where tongues long to tango with torsos
And the music man looks on green.
Two almost strangers stirred to move
By unfamiliar spirits of Havana
And vibrations below equators
Captured not even by his passion’s keys.