Green embedded the floor,
a sonic chlorophyll symphony
permitting the sunlight to sweep the immaculate eyes
of saintly columns.
Wet grass sounds like the cadence of caterpillars
who move like butter over leaves.
the rain revives the ground like a fizzing soda down your throat,
and the girl in the black and white dress
takes a picture with her camera necklace.
It is Wednesday and the grass
is cold, but gunshots break the ice.
Once, the fish swam in the night sky –
a galaxy inside her belly.
She bore stars and pushed out tears, recalling
The angry cycle of mourning the living.
I had the chance to talk with her,
a chance to travel around her galaxy.
I saw the cycle churning,
filling and unfilling her fists,
palms milk white.
I felt the pain safely escape away
from her memory, from the dark house.
Although she lost the tears,
the memory of it twinkles.
Dead and alive in her sky.
Astronomers attach no name to that time,
That spiral pattern.
That place ejected from her insides.
I looked at the fish finding his way in the night.
He broke out and fell
into a motion you’ll remember as no accident.
You felt it coming. The pale wind
reaching for him.
Her mouth flickered, sharp as razors
across the glass window
clouds rolled in in victory.
Snowy rooftops filtered past and
chimneys coughed a stormy blast.
Simple folk dwell within
golden shadows hide their sin.
The panic in the city lights
sweep her eyes at the fringe of night.
Red ribbons run through her pupils,
it’s alright – the moisture on her cheek
doesn’t mean she’s weak.
She feels dizzy in the moving cabin.
The conductor and she are alone,
staring out at the city’s bones.
A boat swings like a weather vane
on the flat blue glass. It turns
like a ballerina
dressed in white canvas and
wooden soled shoes.
She tip-toes and etches hull lines
in the glass like smoke
in her wake.
A man sits on an August heated dock,
watches the lake expand from dark blue to white,
from summer to winter
from East to West.
That boat swings like a needle,
’round the compass of his green-gray eyes.
Your feet are tired, rough and bruised at the stern
Blue nail polish flakes into the bow of your socks,
you are like a snake shedding skin so you can heal.
Your shoulders ache, pinch at your neck
and squeeze your tendons
like jellyfish tentacles injecting poison.
All this time, the day moves
like a pendulum.
I thought you wanted to start new.
Hop off here, pull that pendulum
feel no reverb.
After all this time, the day stains yellow.
A dark stream spills snake-wise over the streets’ hissing hot
The noon light reflects optical illusions,
like piano key towers,
and tall men with powers.
Most of the smokestacks
protrude from their and the city’s mouth
streaming with a harmony
hollowed of energy.
That dark stream sweeps the feet clean
and the men run faster
staring down at the hissing pavement
looking up at the black and white glass.
The noon light transfigures their image;
city and men.
They are shorter by dusk
and gone in the dark stream of night.
Men were once a marine oddity,
mysterious sleek shapes, flat as canoes
hovering over the ocean floor
prepared to advance and attack foreign
They were deterred by their own growth
silent and able,
creeping and naval.
She still carries the old awning from territory to new territory.
Originally, the salt-sprinkled awning
brightened her face
when the sea sun glowed orange and splashed the canvas.
Now, the soot-covered awning
dims her olive skin, casts shadows
during the day.
At first sight, you would fold away
by her striking
under a flammable movable roof.
Second glances prevail and
reveal surprised, flared smiles.
The blackened awning drifts
with homemade electricity
sideways over her tarry hair
lingers for a while, as if delivering rain
like a cloud-
then, it stretches wide and blossoms
toward the sky to be refilled.
You are an EyeLand Catch like your neighbor’s great-aunt,
After the oily waves took bites out of your land,
your home deserves a Time-Out.
Be Proud Mary.
Keep on Pipe Dreamin and enjoy backyard barbecues
on the Fourth of July
even as the June Bug bites alligator skin before mother nature gears up her ammunition.
Mama and Papa’s Dreamers swing on the concrete porch
watching the Grey Mist below My Blue Heaven on this Grand Lyle isle.
You will find paradise in these Weathering Heights, just
Sip n Sea.