DOORS ARE OPENING
everyone reached for the sky captivated less by the sublime than by the strength of their own limbs. not too far away, at the bus stop, lay a poor woman slowly battered down by just cold enough nights and mean looks. a flock of pigeons observed the intersection, perched and disinterested—and yet interested— deciding whether there was something to do.
FOR LEXI (FOR NICK)
a posy of flowers plucked fresh from the country of some heavenly earth cannot restore my love—
a box of sweet city chocolates assorted in dazzling array will not return my peace—
when everything is broken, even the vibrancy and joy of family and friends has nothing in it but death—
the rhythm of life— the swirling sky, the passing of time— alone will grow my love—
the rhythm of life— radiant sunrise and regal twilight— alone will be my peace.
ELECTION DAY
everyone's legs and feet look so beautiful behind the ballot box— long skirts and gladiator sandals— khakis and unstrapped high tops— jeans and chinos— slacks and low heels— knee skirts and black boots— little kids climbing up the poles.
SIPPING TWANG
sipping blackberry vodka— dark magic— listening to thoughts in twang.
1-CALIFORNIA
beautiful lesbian with straight hair balled up in a knot atop her little head.
stray, wispy strands charming not chaotic around her denim collar and stark headphones.
i wonder what she thinks of the news and the misogyny in our culture and the hate in our weather and the plunging dignity and her lips.
NO ONE KNOWS
no one knows what it's like to sit stoned in the back of a taxicab staring at the seagulls and crowd flitting about in the red light of a San Fran intersection. except thousands of people living in the city.
UNICORNS
the people laugh— dark in pastels— under street lights fluorescent white, casting familiar shadows across the dirty living concrete underfoot— black— sprawling— creep of progress the flowing solid.
unicorns wag their horns gratuitously
in the cool night air.
sparkling stars blink weakly in the distance made brighter and more beautiful by the freely passing clouds. gliding
the mind moves the thumb praising the freely passing clouds.
let the words flow like fog from the abyss, instilled with meaning only after traversing a million miles across the mind, dizzy with dreams.
let them hang low, mingling among the trees, buildings, people, fiends, dampening and dimming natural aversions.
let them grow long in lines from sunrise to sunset to sunrise hinting at stupor through deserts of verdure fueled by our favorite toxins.
dissipate — let them when they will — diadem of universal wisdom pour forth like fate from thy dripping, inky quill.
SAS 4
the spider on the sill— a-swinging on her wheel— a weave among the rain—attempting to be still.
the black, obedient dog— our souls in analog— a sniffing, listening creature wandering through the fog.
the fruit upon the table— glowing brightly—nothing sable— all yellow, orange, red—bleeding citrus staples.
the books with humble words— in inky flocks like birds— unfurling wise old wings that rhyme in lines of thirds.
the icy drinks in glass— just buoyant bubbles, grass— dissolving artsy minds in poetry with mass.
apes lounging in the kitchen— some buying—selling—visions— across the marketplace of psycho-stellar fission.
why not end it now—i say—fuck it— let’s leave the seventh stranded in a lonely couplet!
LOVE
my comfort, my chaos, my everything— exploding nameless on the first day of the year with a spicy smile of darkness and wonder and spiral galaxies of feathery hair.