The Traveler and the Sky

In a remote area far off the path
you begin to feel lost--
because you are, one of smallest
in the vast pavilion bringing in
bits of the sea

Dreaming here:
means dreaming forever
getting down in saltless dunes and
never dreaming at all

Your one with the wind, a spec of color
that rides out of the moon--
wild in spurs of bleached coral
pinned tight--
under your weights slickness, trembling
as your acclimating body
releases from bondage of skin

One of the headless, weightless now
and sick... Sick!
Of the clouds you painted on the ceiling
they aren't as useful as the stickers of stars
that glow to lead you through the usual dark
your gasping in your own absence

watching a strange flower bloom where
you slowly lift its roots, into a jar
and its anchored, captured in solitude
perfect there, in wet gravel and gleaming

Its essence is (everything) and nothing
spinning in restless ripples, wings of leg bone
that wrap a strong trunk
soft pedals of jasmine, yellow purple from the
dragons snap, beads of sapphire
as they bled from Saturns rings-- touched
and fading...
It can''t live, not in the real world

A thick bubble drops, another
as a timer resets within
A plastic ferris wheel goes around
revealing....
sparkling bites as it falls, flipped
and continually turning
into the silver side of the mushrooms trip
as released from mosquitoes swarm

Amnesia

The tight bud from an iris
split like eggshell as it infused with dry heat
spilling a pattern of yellowed pollen
crisscross stitching, across the table top
like little bird feet, from toes
that hopped across the mud--
More of the outdoors brought in
for Christmas, I watch
from where I am, try to wear my face honestly
But feel hallow, lost in emotion
Between dangle poinsettia earrings
that do my time for now, a paint on smile
a vision of sunshine and ecstasy
as the center of the room gets pulled
through a twist of twinkle lights
Behind my own hugged knee's, I swallow
thin air, as the world goes to shreds--
In the dream,
kitchen linoleum would grow fat in the cold
swell like furniture legs in an attic loft
dog-eared in a jungle of propped up sheets
bands of light, ghostly fingers and string
that wrap a sleeping giant

A coin fluttering
through the fountain, wishes
on sun kissed dice, vanished
through a thin curtain of smoke
A reality that gets trapped under a crease
of invisible tape and stuff is just
supposed to stay up there, forever 

as dry a color from late autumn

  

Stone Cauldron

--nothing and something, closer and then
whistles from a distant train flowing from my fingertips
like a brush too thick with paint, might as well
be the lone feather; fluttering, between journey
and destination, as a species of words
clouds bloom from grey to winter rain, heavy sheets
changed slowly over to sleet, silver window glass rippling
lapping at square bowls of milk with
the same movement as the sea, that sucks back
like a distant faded memory 
--beyond, in the fading backdrop, a sun
plucks a darkening thread from its eye, down further
the house sways, moaning like the hold of a sinking ship
--later, bottomed out and dry, the roof becomes
an overturning umbrella, searching for flavor 
in the deep scratches left in chipped porcelain, rose hips
and lemon grass, what's left of a dainty cracked 
cornflower ring, and an ember glowing from a fire  

Balloons

The pink of me falls in

with the rusted bolts used for the door
everlasting, crimson, powder
down in the place--
where you relies, you don't 
have to just lay there, so flat
against the floor 
That's when the mercury rises
yanking you ten stories out of the dust
surrounding you, throbbing--
life blood and warm baptismal water
erotic in the first genital sizzle
a candle that rips flesh off the bone
and sends you under
in twisted lightheaded fury
that wants you to reach further
who wouldn't--
even as you tumble, pinholes
that take over, beams
through a night sky and then to swim
into the floating of an ever fading blue
to become the lone violet, persistent

in yellow, purple, and green

How do you know yourself

with it growing, wild inside

when do you begin with it gone

Everything is just an agony, in part

happy and ready to collapse 

Spirals and Doors

The sun fades in liquid quick ripples, disappearing

somewhere near the first step on the porch

while a wind chime plays, its crazy tune

as they hang, like torn out tongues, to view in

pinwheels of pink silver color, as they spin 

Eyes or Ears

Bits of shell and slate

That have never fully

Been awake

Something that jumped out of a page or echoes

out of that lake, will you "hear us" the little voice

seems to say, as they violently twist to free themselves 
if they ever had a soul, its some leftover
lept over essence, a current holding onto life in wings
she carried them home, for their bones
but the house was just a space---
A small space you try to fit in, the dark place there
under the sink, that a child finds to breathe
then runs to pull and re-pull, shut the door
under and over, over and over
in some realm of an already forgotten dream

Never and Yes

She mothers a few tears, salt

In a dry plants dirt

A glow from a lantern,

Where everything is a branch