red glass

paint spilled last nite
settles in a rectangular doorway
on the concrete. she imagines

an entry into carnival
or some kin of hell, writes
the poem in three minutes
then dismisses it. the blob
is thick, shiny, primal, it moves
like slow motion cooling
glass under the morning.

just like you said to do. the
spirit that haunts this porch
has brown and white wings
tipped in true love rosered.

red and red and red. burn
and renewal. eye pop.
stradivarius laughing.
where is my spell check  now, bitch?






















*(&&&






the weather
let's talk about the
clown skies of maine
perpetrated in your eyes
or the mists of smokey
breath intertwined
with photon bites
and animus divine.


or not. hows the weather
where you are? she has
a half smoked cigarette
half a cup of coffee half
an hour till she  leaves.
the handy display in the corner
keeps her connected to time.

she could: suck your cock
write a poem, do a complete
ab workout take a shower.
she chooses poem. she chooses
write.




















**




on your balcony
is a memory caught
in digital form , transmuted
to pixels recombinate with waves
eaves of recollection bubble
under the thick surface creeping
across the landscape. show don't tell
yet i tell and tell and yelly tell.
yawn. i can only think of the way you
described the fizz above a glass
of soda water , tied it to
motes of dust in a light beam
stabbing the still air, thru
a curtain from the eighteenth century.

and then the sun breaks
from the morning clouds here
letting me know there's minutes
and hours out there, and they run
a line of fire ants with amdro manna
in their mandibles.


the pipe is ash. a bird calls
harshly the songs of others
from the tip of the lightpost.
it mocks the orange cat
that sleepily watches
from the honda's roof.
pain is a constant lover, she
realizes.  and plenty to go round.