For BootsThe science of red:sparkling eagle-highoff an earring.Quick-stitched bandanatucked into a loose sleeve.Sultry salsa stepsin mile-long bootscalculateevery crooked smile-a seam ripped openbelow flashing eyes.
Pocket-WatchA pocket watchenclosed snugly within the breast--life ticking away,measuring frying pan mornings,when children pluck fire flowersmeandering through dust novels.Red melts into barren fieldssmothering concealed rootwidowed in smokeand desperatefor arms to pour into;recoiling from thosewhistling flame flowerscrying to the world,"Don't wait in the blood sunrise--your clockwork isn't meant to shatter here."
Grey HairOut of the old penny copperof my brown hair,a brushstroke of silver starlightshimmering from my temples--the proud badge of years rehearsed:twinkling faintly in the morning light,and placed just where my mother has hers.Truly, in one new and unlined,must be the sign of a virtuoso;or perhaps time was lostin those late nightstwirling among moonbeams.
MotherWe are all pieces of our Mother--being bred out of the bowl of her body;where in forging moonsthere is no distinctionbetween her and seed.I am her,she-- her mother,her mother's mother,ape, lizard, snailborn of sea--salty tears of Earth:crying out tender life-bloodof existence;nurturing whale and grass,our brother and sister,and then receiving us backinto her clay bosomwhen we wear and tire--becoming fetaland transforming again into her.Welcomed safely back to darkness,deciding that we were never separatedand are ever becoming one.
StatueOh, my pretty fractured one--the harbor is no place for those with hurt.Fold into the cradle of my armsand, like Earth's purging spring,issue forth your heartache.Let me soak in all your sorrows,mingle them into my self.And with the discovery of this new me--in perpetual metamorphosis--I may begin to know youas you know yourself:a statue against the turn of the seasons.
Introduction to the CityEarth has been buried alive;entombed in cement.And she is desperatelyplotting escape.
PotentialIt will never be the same, will it?Those clear Autumn nightshave detached themselvesand floated from all that is constant.Orange and brown leavescrushed beneath our feet--our warm breath still tremblingoff of each other's faces:ever suspended.And sometimes I longfor that young womanwho lived for you:a piece of my self lost;slipped between the accidentalbrushing of our hands.Pining to reemerge.Within lives the "could have been"more real than truth.
June GirlThe June girl wheels in on mischief-trouble's bicycle;seal eyes are wantingto leave dark charcoal in stubborn hair,branded onto her lungs.She waits by mute guitarsto catch hope in a pillowslipas it floats by on a wind,and whisper her desires through keyholes;they have gathered dustunder the rug.Pencil-tipped fingers grasp at peace,and don't shrink from those who dare to laugh.Searching deep for the rebeland finding there is none:only hummingbird jarsskipping on velvet clouds.