cackling
the measured widths we shrink into
talking in the darkness like late crickets heaving up a molehill
a cackle of office meniscus
summer drizzle a wet stone growing an ear
in a sonogram frog song
lollipops in the basket some promises un-swapped
war of the fishes stilled in a pitted clam shell
otata November 2017
too late
too late
“dead cells”, they say of hair, same thing about nails, skin, too, that sloughs off tempers, hurts, lusts, and regrets, which send the heart hurtling in Hades
caterwauling
flailing braided hair of nymphs, could they have been instruments of execution? and the mane of golden boys, pennants in the eyes of virgins… unbeknownst dripping of night
a prolonged moon
on hair that has found its own rights and freedom, denuded by tectonic eruptions spewing inner fire, deluded by the burst of spring that by the time it booms, a live head
thuds on a stone grate
otata November, 2017
three works (they say/about the spheres/interpretentions)
1.
they say
mountain clouds
implode in a colic
a stare brings on
revolts
snow buntings invite
green eyes
fibrous bones
roll down a mulch hill
a rasp in his caws
one catches
wild weeds
pierce fresh wombs
in a clam shell
of not-thereness
2.
about the spheres
a wink enough to lift the moon’s hem
a slivered blue licks paradise
part grit part fluff the foaming universe
constellations stringing rocks into falsies
concoctions a boom of moon craters
3.
interpretentions
with my lips, I accept the many ways grass wears dew that Van Gogh kept secret
I agonize so much so that my stomach contracts regurgitating Dali’s white lies
a valley of lilies I hurtle into with eyes closed on Monet skinny dipping
the spastic leg throws of marionettes as Picasso dreamt I can
together shedding barnacles from cliffs chipped clean in cubes Mondrian says his own
thieves inhabit the hippocampus of dawn beetles scaling the spirals of Gaudi’s nights
my singed heart hurts so the onyx solitaire Klee entraps with dancing threads
otata April 2017