by the colacolored waves
whispering their swaying sounds
sun this sunday early lays
’pon its waterbed o’ clouds
blanketing these cooing gales
mintsweet firs to kill the chills
counting ships those reekcreep snails
sail its walls o’ frosty hills
days descend like paper sheets
yellowing synced with leaves whose trees
shiver black with tea & seas
fall the goldsoft resin treasures
crispbrown jalapeño chips
palm o’ palmates blushing gestures
roughhewn arms flick wrists in wind
cloudridden icarus my sun
casting lines to warmcool lakes
under gusts from sparrows’ lungs
sleeping ’way the shrinking days
wake from drunken summers sober
finding helios’ reign’s over
leave streets red for black october
Lemon drops on milky clouds
bound this wistful field above
pewter lakes — ¡but wait! ¡Look now!
¿How’d this specter enter such
verdant film now ill, when it
wasn’t there before. Before I
eat my harvest, fix on this
ray of sunlight staged for sore eyes.
Superstitions won’t sway trees;
what a day to buy tea leaves —
October Friday 13.
Saw outside a lonely time
shadow firs are teasing me
breezily. Their scents make pine
every time all kinds, seasoning.
Under skies as pure as opal,
bright night dimmed by grim surroundings,
worse by wind, won’t hush, but yodels.
Houses still for nature’s crowning.
For my birthday, I would like
tons of air a year for life —
swear to heart won’t waste this time.
Sweet or spicy, ¿who can scent
brimstone watercolor flooding
buckets brimmed of pavement meant
bent below the toes of bloody
skullcap shrooms in dusty noon —
{ guess I best bring out the broom } —
tombs so late & all so soon,
cheering chilly autumn gloom?
Colored gray won’t keep me sober;
drink before the season’s over —
To you ghosts, let’s toast October.
with the scent o’ berries, too;
smudged on smoky sidewalk chalk.
Chalk it up to moonlit blues,
choking me up harshly soft.
Chatter dead is better than dead
silence wand’ring wolfen streets on
urban hills that never bend &
shatters into icy neon.
Moonlight full o’ foggy capes,
follow me through thin-black japes’
scarecrow boughs that ease me blank.
Note: I was going to “celebrate” Marxmas by posting an article wherein I shit on Marxism & it’s stupid “Dictatorship of the Proletariat” bullshit, ’cause, as predicted, 2015 was a bad year, & that’s what you do on years without a warm future. But I’m sick to death o’ politics (& don’t have the time to revise it to coherency), so enjoy this superior, relaxing sonnet ‘stead.
I can feel your yellow heart
piping spice in frozen nights,
where your sturdy metal starts
bending in such smoke so tight,
snuggled up with razor noise,
which is where the fireworks bloom,
showing off your rusty toys,
like your gurgling cauldron plume.
Though I rest in cotton caves,
your gears’ll never wane,
even when I’m in my grave.
Light that leads me through the blizzard,
white in flakes, such snuggled blankets.
Tangy sugar never withers,
though this season never bakes it,
only baked so long ago,
you remind me o’ soft bread,
warm tan crescents made o’ snow.
Noses itch in strong, fresh scents.
Red lights warn you: stop & breathe,
drown the death in breakfast tea,
touch the crystals on the leaves.
Viewed through blinds, your smoky scents
with your rattling tracks & wheels
passes straight through my brain stem
with the rusty steel that peels
scraps & bolts & coal-black fire,
painted muddy brown & red.
Midnight chugged without a tire
& a million-meter bed.
Sure your ghosts are sure cliché,
floating in their dirty rags;
I’ll ride nightmares any day.
Crumple all my papers under
bellies hungry for a scratch;
feel & hear your dormant thunder
while you ready paws to snatch
jackets trying to pass by.
But I know you always flee
from the wall-clung fly-fast lights,
even though just made by CDs.
Playing poker, you beat me;
now I need to pay the fee:
scratch your chin eternally.
