From a chaos of viridity sprout Sol’s beloved Miss Day-Lilies, proudly majestic in stunning velvet gowns. Their sedate and wispy rivals chafe in pedestrian petals, but with the Sunset Ball descends the curse. The Miss Day-Lilies wither under the glare of Night’s blackness.
Slow and steady along the dry bed of the River Nix goes the ferryman / No faltering over cascades, snags, or black-water grief / With his ark of hornless rhinos and weeping elephants / Tokens of the unabridged chaos / The ultimate desertification / of pity.
Enough of time’s accumulation / And the measure of human cruelty / Bells will be ringing on foxgloves / When they fall from the ankles of slaves / And tolling clocks will dance / From dandelion heads / When an instant of wonder / Is all we wish to spend.
Snowflakes articulated in dust, water, and cold, a crystalline language of elegant design and utter indifference. Compacted on the pond into a crust of undifferentiated ice except where three swans huddle, wings as tall as blown sails as meltwater heat creates brief sanctuary.
To bake a homemade poem, sift out coarse words / Then toss in the velleities–a metrics of / Sensibility or regret; a rugged / Metaphor erupted from molted experience / Then separate the slurry into stanzas / That bridge minds and derandomize inchoation.
A far-flung sunset pungent with color in long stratus clouds, narrow passages between ends and means and dawn. The eau-de-cologne of night’s romance silenced by the tubular tongues of hummingbirds at rest.
My lover, my household periapt of bone, sinew, and sketchy smile / Bought cheap from a pawnshop on the boulevard / Of butchered dreams / I love the way you lie beneath the white sheet / In sultry nakedness / And lie beneath the truth / With a disarming display of vigor.
Her ghost walks before her, her shadow trails behind / Thru the dismal slough of passions drowned / How long it took to come to terms with the / Imperfect self, off-hand loves, and casual cruelty. / Her ghost will rage in time but her shadow resists extinction.
A shady metropolis without walls / Tree branches latticed / To catch suicided squirrels / And platform fragile eggs / A bare understory / Trafficked by chipmunk and bug / Inured to laborious gleaning / In the pollutions of fragrance / To foil hunter and prey alike.
Hidden paradise in the stained-glass wingspan of monarchs in kingdoms of purple thistle / Placebo for tarnished hearts going under the microscope of doubt / Panacea for anguished souls undergoing the sly seduction of Thanatos.
We forget paradise lost when conifers dropped needling instruction / And leafed tongues slant-rhymed in cats’ cradles of crescent moons / While crosswinds wooed entire forests into frenzied dance / Even young willows and towering maples in the crosshairs of commerce.