A scream raging –
singer’s shrill through dark, flashes
blows hard and long
thick upon the windshield of the skull,
blinding fleshy eyes,
rocking plush, pillow heart
like spinning on ice
into control
each gorgeous revolution
drenched in flake
upon flake
white and
pure as the blood
of Christ
—insulation—
His piercings
her dreadlocks
limbs flying
mosh moving
frozen souls
thawed in blizzards
of sound
bass
bass
beat
wintry breezes
pump, pump, breathe
I want to be an orange
Plump, bright and bursting
Juicy droplets, gently pressing
‘gainst my veins
in perfect physics
force upon force
Humming softly with contentment
Peel-free but unburstable
Pump me up
Flush the drought of doubt
From my veins
Make me percolate,
Still with
Your humming,
Taut with
Your movement,
A lightning rod for
You
Polka Dot Powder Peppers Drab Steel Sky
Star Fingerprints Dissipate Wet on Windshield
Flakes Float on Falling Harmonies; Midnight Tapers Flicker
Joyful Tolling Echoes Across White Night Blanket
Child’s Breath, Cold Smushy Nose Block Wonderland Scene
Moist Ashen Mounds Litter City Streets with Ugliness
Frosty Also Resurrected on Easter
Cool Confetti’s Final Frolic in Frigid Spring Sky
I wrote an ode
to snow
of heady headlines;
sorry
you hate winter.
an elegant cacophony of horns:
static sound, dynamic—crescendo!
rhythmic, primal, classical . . .
overtop
a clinking cup
scuffing of a chair leg
graphite-on-paper: rough kisses
her arms reach on the
granite top
slightly too miniature for comfort
a gulf
between torso and table;
a channel
between her and
his head, ducked in concentration
eyes lifting: glass gaze of consternation
as he fidgets, figures, frames
O, Read her thoughts
upon the stream
of horns, beats, voices
across the granite, the space, your shoulder
ruffling the page
snapping off the pencil lead
an alarming ghost
arresting progress
—captured
just once before
. . . the horns, the beats . . .
the door—shut
the cup, gone cold
