Houses on Stilts

You are an EyeLand Catch like your neighbor’s great-aunt,

Nellie-Ann.

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.

 

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It Stings and it Heals

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Abalone, starfish, Rain –

I suppose I will permit them into the waves.

 

Before concrete arteries, oceans substituted in one large jar, the preserved animals

now kept under microscopes    decayed

smelling like pickles and chlorophyll.

From the backyard of Western Biological,

bookcases store vegetables in filing cabinets

under the Pacific saliva.

As many as 100 encyclopedias attempt to

combine and separate

worms, urchins, nudibranchs,

snails

to make a Picasso into a sensical Dali,

but we all know boxes don’t make sense

in a fluid body.

Cell walls are permeable,

rooms you can enter, float to and fro

exchange energy that is needed. Whenever you please.

Sit on a bench and ponder how the ocean spray

covers barnacles, seals, and humans

when dissection rips and fragments lives

“telling them very profound words to understand.”

Salty saliva drips from our eyes and their slippery pores.

It stings and it heals.

White Stains

I’m too close.

I can’t close it.

The celestial dressing gown grows,

shoots looks of wisdom down on me.

My engine drums against my outstretched ribs;

bones pound at an angle,

they sharpen at the tongue of: harp strings;

their vibrations rip at my throat.

I can’t stop.

I can hear a mantra:

“Shine, you dark, dark skeleton.

Shine, you dark, dark star.”

My shapeless voice quivers and leaves

moonlight stains on the ears of flower buds.

 

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Hell in a Theater Attic

Flee to the attic, meet Anne Frank, scrawl your diary

day by day or minute by minute with a marker in hand

marking the peeling wallpaper.

158 killed

18 is the magical slope (if you’re into math).

Meanwhile, theater balconies terrorize the back of our heads.

Bullets push for center stage

“Look at me! Stop your folly.

Here I am. Look at me.

Look at my

hot metal skin

silver armor

swim

through red, white and blue

blood (sells).

Flee to the attic, I will not follow

there are no eyes to witness

up there.”

Hand-held hearts, unpinned and thrown

into faces – above the cellar.

 

How can I sit here in my bathrobe

watching funny TV

while the City of Lights is snuffed by grenades,

gun powder, bombs?

An entrepreneur enters the Shark Tank,

a terrorist targets a cafe.

Death tolls rise.

A soccer game hears booms (just the ball, right?)

Stitch the borders, close the Metro.

No one gets out alive.

“This is Hell.”

 

Orbit

My image of you:

A marble in orbit

around the ballroom floor

like a smiling astronaut

trying not to panic in a locked up space.

Gloom and doom, together in the endless land,

escape.

Only,

you are in a locked up space and your legs,

they run in place.

My image of you:

A silver horse, a cosmic gallop

around the sun in a metallic chariot

trying not to panic

in the feverish space.

Gloom and doom, together in bedazzled illusion.

Only,

you are in a feverish place

and your reins, they imprison your face. haber-1

In the name of revolution

Barn frames. Splintered and glorious.

Colonial American flags, rusty red, not royal in hue

protrude from the frames.

Behind the red wood,

cows laze in hobbit land and fields

where rocks-white-sparkle

in verdant seas.

Father and young boys

dip their fishing rods

in the lake.

A mallard rests near by on the burning pavement

(asizzlinggriddle)

leaking oily red.

 

Down the road and a bend in the bridge:

a sign.

Eggs for sale –

oval yard sign stands by the wood mailbox,

a mini-fridge holds eggs on the porch.

The mallard hatches to heaven.2977304854_7989da2b76

Reconstruction Site

I want to tell you

I live on a thin raft

constructed far from shore

in a Western reverie

where Pharaoh voices crescendo and narrow beats escape

a singing river – full of friends waiting

to tell me, with dry sand cemented to their fingers –

how the thin raft has escaped.

And my chest is hard.

I want to tell you:

the strange morning is opening;

time for reorientation.

I still need you.