The Car is Out of Control

Like a zipper careening like a rocket diagonally have I gone mad?

Scratching the surface of the tracks, sparks flying- birds screaming.

My fists squeeze yellow feathers and beaks open from the trees to the

beat of the train bell. I open my eyes, and the clouds disappear.

The wind shield cracks, slithering across the glass.

But where will the marble go next?

Bats of Twilight

Bats of Twilight

I can't remember when the clouds- oh, they stole

the thunder lightening, red lipstick dancing on

the pavement under the yellow moon.  

BUT bats never had it so good when they ripped their sight

from their very own eyes, tore it from their very own eyes
and sped down the cave spreading

their rapid fear everywhere, reaching for the air

under the yellow moon.

But something is happening too late- a knife appears out of the
corner of he hills, and the bats

scatter, the moon shrivels, and the thunder is swallowed.
 I open my eyes, and the bats bounce off

the walls.  Why?  Why can't I see?  My eyes are blood shot they say,
blood shot and yellow.

They say it's from the drinking, from the drugs, but I say it's from that land, under the moon, with

the bats, and the tree, growing crooked, and twisted.  
With ants, marching up and down, trying to

supply this world with a happy ending, a happy ending,
a happy twisted branch- thorns reaching,

trying to rip apart the blood red roses.

New Bloom

I am a watermelon sliced by a cutter, ripped by four tigers,
swinging their heads with glass sharp teeth. Playful dog, wagging its tail.
Raggedy Anne doll swing of the head, side to side, flashlight glow in their eyes.
Pinching every inch of my carcass. I rise, organs dripping out of me.
They back off as I stand up, time erasing my wounds into bite marks.
Like a cloth, over washed and over dried, I sweep from the pond of my
heaviness, damaged. My eyes are dancing with a red fire, constantly
being rekindled despite the scars. My scars are a tribal mark to bring
friends to fight with me, and make new scars to gather more comrades.
The leaf is turned over and the gash sprouts a new bloom.

Broken Promises

Broken Promises.


Tell me. Where do you place broken promises
when they have been discarded.
Into a box where they will be shipped off
and never heard from again?
All of my broken promises are sobbing creatures,
green shrunken guys
With black beady eyes, gnawing at white knotted ropes.
They reach for the promises they were supposed to have
been near, and to have kept.
But they will never be like a blow fish, swimming in
the ocean of completed promises.
Of gleaming marbles of shimmering hope and desire so
red and polished, honesty, again.
The owners passed by the knot to untie it, for temptation.
The promises cry, blinking with tears, their eyes in agony.
Hope for their lives fades like dew on the knot,
promising to maybe return someday.

Spinach

Spinach

Meat splattered on a clean sheet of paper, running
down the edge making a black rose.
Hand it to a homeless man smoking a joint,
he smiles a side smile- tipping his hat at
a girl in a red skirt, with blood dripping down
her legs, probably from nicking her leg.
Where is the dandelion seed? Where did it blow to?
I want my five leaf clover to find me,
not for me to find it. I'm wandering through these
streets looking for a street sign
that doesn't say my name, that isn't so noisy, that
isn't full of thorns with no roses,
just black dying empty trash cans, with homeless man
picking out of them, Popeye
popping spinach in his mouth, ready to fight me for
the wrong queen.
I'm tired, I'm ready to plop on my bed, and smoke
a pipe too.
But I've just got to spin this yarn, hope
I don't get pricked, by the nasty queen.
She looks in the mirror, sucking in her belly,
stealing all my red roses, over, and over
and over again, throwing apples at me and cackling,
worms crawling all over my body,
stuffing my face with the marsh mellow game full of poison.