our armored borough

Deep in our burning bowl,
colorless carp writhe along
river veins, concealed under
hydrangea tears.  In the
coming days, good citizens,
carved from ivory and
emerald, will be driven beneath
browning branches and into cool
corners with strawberry-butterscotch
stars swimming in their eyes.  Those
who endure shall frolic in
chrysanthemum’s shadow.

The Tranquil Tiger

Rippling crystal becomes bistered and soiled,
staining learned thumbs with mud from this noble
land.  Immature garnet tresses lay slumped beside
woven palm leaf, gasping for air with the fire of our
founder on their faces.  They will never know the
power of their ancestors, those heaven sent messengers
with twisted fingers, blighted by warts, but which smell
of tropical winds.  One quick slice and a tiger’s hide
is exposed.  Stripped of black bands, the beast is tamed,
becoming a willing servant to body’s desires.

out with you and with you, in

Raise up red irises, swimming in smoke.
An impartial dove shall rescue us from
this garden where only citron grows.

The wishbone within couldn’t possibly offer
shelter, not now…not ever.  Up and up
towards a seemingly sympathetic plateau,
endless ascents weary an already fragile mind.

The second descent (no catch for hooked
hands), just like the first, grants no asylum.
We trudge on in raven’s ruff, searching for
fabled sweet bay that blooms in the
wake of defeat…may we slumber in its
blushing arms.

Burned Out (April, are you here?)

Yolk, not broken, awaits tomorrow’s
skin.  Young basil, wilted from evening
heat, never passes through your lips.
The hour, slow as September 5th, casts
a solitary shadow upon impregnable
white paint. Tongue tastes, but belly
does not. Curtains have been drawn,
for while there are no secrets, there is
no soul.

 

Apricot Moon

That droning throat buried in
his fingers, cracked and tanned as
barren earth, narrates the tenderness
of our times.

Into the wind, from hoping souls,
agile lungs stain this burning night
with the bittersweet shades
of our days.

Somewhere past midnight,
but well before dawn, silence
falls betwixt brandied cheeks,
yet our hearts wail on.

Honey Girl

Eyes not yet open,
hidden in warm honey,
stare into comforting darkness,
searching for safety.

Will you look upon me,
or shall my face be your
eternal, distant,
advocate?

Eyes not yet open,
hidden in a flourishing orchard,
refuse to see the
dangers that await them.

Shall I look upon you,
or will your face be my
lone, unknowable, lantern
in life’s teeming tide?

Dinah’s Day

Salt-smudged mud, square-toed Oxfords;
hard leather heels flap like blackbirds
through a New York morning swarm.
Time don’t wait for crusty-eyed snails
full of midnight gin and tipsy tales.
That green-fisted fiend snaps at her back,
whatever the score, he’ll beg for more.
Those chords don’t tweet for love alone,
but for now, she owns the throne.