Pink and Orange Peaches

Pink and Orange Peaches


A stranger in
the stairwell,
it was the
beginning,
it is when
I couldn't finish.

Ampersand,
your face
inside the lines
of my hand.
Your face
outside my

cataract.
too many
trashbins
full of the things
I could never
convey.

Another 90’s
ballad to make
the fingertips
seem like colors,
peach, orange,
and pink.

We are an open
parenthesis,
Blue sequins,
a great mathe—
matical sequence.

Second Form of ID

Second Form of ID


There is pollen in the air but no breathing yet,
just winter’s residue leaving imprints on fore—
heads like evolution outside seven am. Blue
jeans imprinted with sandals, two sets of lips
and the pixie cup of love. How it couldn’t
be cold enough to portray softball in the air or
magnitude of an asshole taking aimless swings.
I once was a child on a swing with white hair
that loved caterpillars or unclosed parenthesis.
Please. That boombox button doesn’t belong
around a neck, the world is already clichéd to
a point where chocolate melts at absolute zero.
The potluck lick from Mayo doesn’t have such
a ring to it. The hollowness in the middle calls
for a locked bathroom’s caulk-gun stick-up. A
morning glory I lit seven years ago is still about
to burn your fucking eyes out. Please. Change
your name. 35 cents. A long distance phone
call. Hollywood is an anagram for your dolly.
Almost.

Analysis of Gravity

Analysis of Gravity


Interpretive dancers
scare me with their
sporadic movements
that knock bookshelves
to the floorboards.

Treble mixed with
bass and some
rhythmatic life,
but maybe I’m just
not letting the music
give me any wings.

The best are the ones
with ribbons colors
of old 80’s fabric,
twirling and cycling
until even they get
can’t stand the sight
of a tilt-a-whirl.

But maybe I am just
a bit impartial for my
own personal attempt,
Natalie Imbruglia made
me believe I could fly
from building to building.

I woke with two broken
femurs and cadmium plates.
I was high on amphetamines.