of our operators are
|Magnetic curtains covered
my eyes. For relief I collected shiny
to finger in my pocket. My Life refused
licorice sticks and candied butter when a truck dropped off
our home and leveled it with cement blocks. The sweat
from his labor burned the soles of my shoes.
My white socks turned against me as my loverís
headwinds tugged my sails in
directions. Tap dance around him today,
tango with him tomorrow. My lover
a broken blister and butter sliding off toast.
|I never loved the wax that stuck to the roof of my mouth but the blonde blew kisses that looked like a bubble full of the soap my father bathed me in on Sunday evenings and she wrinkled her nose just a little so that it looked like the onionskin I loved to roll in as a boy so you see once she scooped the wax candy with her palm facing my face a palm with doughy lines crisscrossing like hot cross buns I had to chew put it in my mouth chew despite the wax the wax was the cost of the show.|
|God is the history of ice.
Art is the history of salt.
Between eye chronicles, I paint
Scene A transmits doubt. Scene B transmits rumors.
One scene crossbreeds into
Rough strife followed
The fridge is a volcano. Oxygen
ink, the sour roar
The thief holds a broken bucket.
The cough interpreter examines
Because I live, traffic lights elude me.
Pleasure is a retired prisoner.
Godís broken thumb slips up my spine.