Feeding thirsty leaves, the grapes
paint the concrete oily yellow;
& they keep unique pastel glow
e’en when wrinkled by dry age.
Get’n to business pecks the crow,
front & back, that beaky drummer;
no concern that e’en in summer
faded mountains still smell like snow.
But that sun was far too distance;
now there’s shade. The fact, though, is that
still these crows get down to business.
Starry dreams
pink & baby blue:
morning moon.
Schließlich kommen
Blätter und Erdnussbutterschokoladenriegelpapier
zusammen endlich.
Finally–
leaves & peanut-butter-chocolate-bar-wrappers
together @ last.
I can taste the bloody iron
in your sticky spinach clinging
to the rocks, your simple sirens,
though its your leaves that are singing.
There is safety in remains,
memories o’ wine-sweet bliss;
ride on waves, on ships, on chains,
green all that is colorless.
Still you cling to my gray shoes;
though I love your ugly fruit,
progress says you get the boot.
Ignore the sun’s slander:
as much as there is in the golden retriever,
there is strawberry syrup in the heart o’ the salamander.
Black is the color o’ cola & chocolate,
& I can feel the moon’s flour crumble in my fingertips,
can feel the soggy brown leaves hug my feet
as they pass poems by Hershy, Sunkist, & Tim’s scattered through the street.
Like ancient Greek plays,
torrents quench nerves dried sick by sunburns;
& there’s peace in the chaos o’ carpet floors
scattered with papers, wires, & shirts.
For what is beauty but that which we accept?
Thus, if we accept ugliness, misery, & death…
No.
They don’t.
I take it all back:
all o’ the muddy foot tracks,
all o’ the red marks left by tacks,
all o’ the limbs blown onto my yard,
all o’ the cheap rom hacks o’ Mario Kart.
There’s only room for either day or night,
& the moon’s not full ‘nough to finish that fight;
so we must all be subjected to the light
—the lactose intolerant to be sacrificed.
Sun-burnt eyes:
sparrows snatch turtles
toward tides.
Fruity-pebble morn:
cubicle worker
quotes vid in comments.
Guaranteed
warm or your cash back–
Summer Moon™
«Mmmm…»
Hold it there, Signor Sher: I just
saw you rolling round the sun-caressed
grass villi like a cub fucking
for the 1st time—well, OK, nothing
o’ this I truly saw; but I did glimpse flashing
colors through your eyes into your mind, basking
in your soft cotton sweats &
your puffy jacket. Think you’re the cream on the pumpkin
pie, right? Wrong! We were saving this
sweet & sour sunlight. It wasn’t meant for you.
Nothing is.
That’s right: put it all back where
you found it—all o’ the slick hair-
like grass; all o’ the viney
wrinkles on every oak; every
juicy loose-leaf hugging your
shoeless socked feet; & all 4
seasons. Don’t miss e’en the most worthless
piece. We’ll count them all to ascertain
that they’re all returned.
As for you, you
need to get a clue:
snooze.
Quiza es junio,
pero el celeste gris
y el aire que es tan frío que puede verlo
lo hacen un junio del otoño,
ni del verano ni siquiera de la primavera.
So there.
