Wary and suspicious
a justice buries himself in the
shadows of a liquor cabinet. He lacks confidence.
“I am attached to the sparing of summer values and
grant reconciliation to November’s barren days,”
The letter from The Office of the Superior
lays torn in half on the carpet. It smells of internal networking.
A dog in a neighbor’s yard lets out a low moan and smells apples
in the air.
“If only his children… If only his children…”
Mrs. Witherbon utters to the crowd assembled
in the parlor who had come for dinner.
They look down at their hands and shake their heads.
“If only, if only,” they repeat in unison.
“A mantra!” the justice screams. “A mantra?
That is my compensation? No more. Please. The blood of my children
will shake the earth!”
Elsa, the daughter of the justice, examines the number of scratches
in the dinnerware and finds it suitable.
She is alone in the dining room except for Raymond the parrot who is
caged in the corner. With a smile she takes comfort in the
secret she has kept.
“It is a temporary madness. So much stress and now this.
What can one expect?” Mrs. Witherbon reassures.
The crowd is uncomfortable with her desperation being so
They nod, shuffle and appear concerned.
“Take flight you peacemakers,” the justice warns,
“for I will have your heads.”
In the town of Ruxberg some distance away
The Office of the Superior
asks a young woman if she would like to see a movie.
And she, overcome by the charm of His Elevation,
backs away from him and into the glass
of a storefront window. He can only laugh a chirping
cough-like chuckle in remorse
for the scandal.
You break me
undress in the half-light
The Patriarch’s slumbering lust
turning grapes red
I fear the omens
shuttered in the tresses of your dark hair
released and feeble
haunt our naked passage through the hall
you step past me
feet stained a ghastly blue
the crystal faces of the dead
full of a blind malicious
to stare helpless at my submission
You bind me
Where The Graved Go
Talisman drift design
an October mentioned in passing
the swinging laughter
borne upon the eve of holy days.
“But why and where do the graved ones go?”
Eight count decent dreamt
valiant on solar currents
A begged pandering to a crowd of ghosts.
Opened beauty eyes
the high stream.
“Just a while longer.”
must go soon.”
“Just a while longer?”
Do tell that sliding lunar joy
on fished paths twisting
below the knotted stars.
A manned door open to the whim of youth.
Down the high stream is where the graved go.
They make no residence.
or settlement on the bank.
Ever and on
is left to them alone.”
I don’t believe any more.
Esoteric remains from a populist cult
littered on the highway.
Breach the subject under tulip trees
in the mangroves
before the oncoming autumn storm
eases our passion.
listen to the water drip and drain.
It is humid and I am maddened
by the violent surrender
of our morality.
the rain comes
and we struggle for footing
on the shambled pilings
for a creator.
The voice of a strangled life
withers in the fires
She will not be born
You’re sky in ecstasy.
My lips touch
the blight of your pinked fruit.
What we need is a vacation.
Perhaps to Croatia
where on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking the Mediterranean coast
I’ll dream of Odysseus
and you will drink your Magpie Tea.
But I don’t want to get to know you
only investigate the mysteries
of your body
and just leave the rest for my fantasy
Avert your eyes when we pass each other in the hall.
I am a scavenger
muted by the notes
somehow know to play.
Peace in ecstasy your sky showers blue patterns
over the land
and I want to play in the mild breeze
an abrasive knock
a creeping paralysis crawls over the carpeted floor.
I shiver frightened into your forbidden nature
limp and broken
by the softness of your shoulder
beneath the sharpened knifing shadow
of an aristocratic chin.
The couch is lonesome now.
I am cold beneath the blanket.
The Summer Room
The summer room lines are drawn.
Darling opens the door
to bring me the sweets
of unkissed youth.
He was lost one day
walking home from school
and kicking stones
along the sidewalk.
Maybe it was I who was at fault
being bound corporeal and
by my own design.
But he is still alive somewhere
outside this room.
smells of sweet grass and its taste
mixes with the blood
in my mouth.
I feel still that cool evening wind
being blown from a childhood desire
the open car window.
How it stirred suspense and danger.
And in the end how empty it was.
The summer room lines are drawn
I surrender to them.
A mirrored field of vision hides my name
and as the years rest
over the hills and in between the sun
I realize I no longer miss it.
Holiday in an Atlantic state
A lost year
I cannot remember
those flushed moments
naked in the sand and silver wrapped.
with parents who smoked
on the back porch.
Orange fluttered in the pit of her heart.
Random billowing waves of nausea
bitter and resentful.
Crooked salty breeze twisting
slipped over the dunes.
dance in an Atlantic