On the Solstice/On the Equinox

Two poems from recently, hand in hand.

On the Solstice


Body on fire, spangles. Light to sequin stars burn out at
both ends. Octupus monocles play an overture on the
ocular pieces of the orbit. To the sky, tourmaline latches
loop around lockets laminated to constellations of child-
ren holding handles. Familiar facets of the concentric
ceilings are centerpieces for the tiny Earth people. To the
sun, not to be eccentrically eclipsed by Luna wondering
lackadaisically on the shore. The perihelion is perfect and
petals of the sequential sun coexist with lucid life forms.
The compass breathes congruency and conjugates. Spin.



On the Equinox


Canopy awakening alive inside the kaleidoscope spitting
images of shapes screaming, changing, willowing, then
combining to simplicity that small children find appealing.
Mankind is like shapes with sides that sublime into the sky,
wanting more than fingertips touching towers that climb.
Always a girl with curly hair hating it but loving progressive
plurals, progressive nouns, a lions den, progressive activity.
The no answer is a new solution to differentials forgetting to
divide the quotient, the quotation, the quasi-momentum inside.
Picturesque elephants proliferating in the desert drinking from
the oasis. An oasis, our oasis that is waiting for the wet season,
waiting for the monsoon to masticate from the heavens. Stop.

Nothing Fictional

Nothing Fictional


I question the motives of Earth people.
I wonder if they know breathing in
atmospheric nitrogen is simply lost in
the biological processes that get put
to using energy, synergy, falling.

The red ribbon untied in a bathroom
smells like a fjord out on the shore,
it is waving in the wind just as a
hurricane flag without a battery.
I need a battery to charge the anions.

Silence is a connection to the home
that only has footsteps of grave-
stones, Gregor, fidelity, and Mona.
If there was ever a place to put an
asterisk you are looking at it baby.

Carrot raised to the ceiling (rooftop)
below the accuracy of being awake
for thirty-eight hours without a solution.
Call on Euler to find me a proof if
he weren’t dead, do me a favor.

Leave the girl on the curbside,
not to freeze but be found by a compliant
line to take her towards a pair of dice.
Leave me with graphite and eloquence,
licking the glass carbon I look out of.

Seasons come in fraternal quadruplets
slapping each other at the differences.
Spring breathes the life and Summer
decides he can load the revolver,
Autumn can change leaves only for

Winter to take every last bit of life.
For Winter to clutch the metal and
become the battery launching
protons towards the sun, towards
the hole in the sky, one with dinosaurs.