"Blackberry Transcendence"
Hands, covered in dust
blown up by the rapidly
spinning wheels
of a bike now at his feet
and the amethyst juice
of fresh blackberries,
move from wild shrub to
stained mouth.
Soursweet juice covers
lips, teeth, fingertips…
Hidden in a monk’s
cloister of bushes
he eats, surrounded by
the scent
of honeysuckle on a vine
and the lazy buzz of summer bees,
their legs heavy with
pollen.
Hearing only the staccato
symphony of cricket song
and the rhythmic resonance
of his contented chewing.
Concerned with nothing
more than getting home on time,
he samples God’s
bounty with the leisureliness
that only a child can
know.
"Butterfly on Asphalt"
Butterfly—
Wings buttercream yellow
laced with rich leather
brown spots.
Hobbling feverishly
down the yellow parking
line
on the hot asphalt.
One wing maimed,
dying,
struggling to take flight,
to die peacefully in a
patch of grass.
Saddened, there is nothing
I can do
but bear witness
amidst a sea of people
who do not stop to notice
your last labor.
"Chaos Theory"
An idle Saturday morning;
two cars sit
like wrinkled pieces of
origami
metal arms akimbo.
No aesthetic symmetry
in the leviathan
pieces of steel left,
flat-chested
as a twelve year old girl,
safety glass strewn
like diamonds on jeweler’s
velvet.
Chaos is reborn in the
form
of a stroller covered
in oily birth fluid,
an empty wish for a fragile
parcel
of downy hair and miniature
toenails.
Wondering if life wept
from the dead
like golden gummy sap,
I shudder and travel the
same road
waiting for my own enlightenment
at
seventy miles per hour.
"Concrete Roses"
Twin graves
hidden amongst phallic
monuments of marble
and family mausoleums
are all that is left of
them, these people
I do not know.
Walking amongst the markers,
I notice an overturned
coffee can
full of plastic roses
potted in concrete
and wonder what sort of
grandchildren
do not bring fresh flowers
to their dead.
Outraged, I tidy the graves
of strangers,
promise them forget-me-nots,
in an attempt to
relieve my own sorrow.
"Desert Adonis"
As I watch my tears plunge
and vanish into the sand,
forgotten,
unable to fill the void,
I get the distinct impression
you won’t be coming
back.
As I watch you walk away
I imbibe your cat graceful
gait—
still intoxicated by rolling
hips
and liquid step.
You walk the natural rhythm
of sex—
forceful strides, forceful
thrusts
into me.
Goodbye my Adonis.
Carved from silken marble,
a honeyed statue glittering
in the sun.
Like smooth desert slate,
your body retained the
day’s heat
to warm my nights, and
your cinnamon sage skin
burned my inquisitive
tongue
as I aroused you into
consciousness
in the periwinkle twilight.
Like Pygmalion’s
Galatea,
you came alive under my
wandering hands,
and our humid sighs and
passion-drenched bodies
were enough to quench
the desert.
