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She cloaked herself behind the wallpaper
creeping around the room
and fattening my psychosis
like a sponge under a faucet
expanding and absorbing
rational thought
and mushing it into a porridge
of obsession
and the sense of a thousand faces
peering at your female body,
contorting themselves
into a collage of mockery
I want a blanket
over my head
yet my eyes must be
squeezing themselves
out of their sockets
to peer beyond
the thickets and at
those faces, those things
that denigrate me
and thus shove me towards
a freak hell that I
mustn’t tear through
I just wish a hand
could cloak me so
or perhaps a quilt
then those vermin
faces would depart
The cricket’s hum meanders,
omnipresent in the dimness of night,
a chorus birthed from roughness
and a guild of things without vertebrae
a sound that dances, constant,
wavering only under morning sun
~
Coiled up in a black stew,
the insect churning stands amid a mute
concoction of the kind of
muddyness that emerges after dusk,
hovering over cities
and brushing past streets until its repose
The soft, newborn breeze
forcing the lazy leaves to bounce about,
whistling through your pores
and stirring branches.
Dollops of whipped ice crystals
are suspended from the sky, a mobile
in God’s childhood bedroom.
A minute body heeds the weather’s tale,
fixated by its allure.
The troposphere looks ahead,
not at quilted lawns, but at a new land
with clouds coasting timelessly
toward the lisp of the ether, cascading out
of Earth and into starlight.
Autumn, second to last
on time’s turnstile,
a jamboree of warm colors stacked upon one another
in preparation for the
insipid frost.
A moth
fluttering,
twitching,
hitting the ground,
twitching,
shaking,
jittering,
stopping.
the moth is still.
I held it above me,
but then I had to let go
and lose it all over again.
there is beauty in the mundane.