A Crooked Deal.Perhaps my feet are crooked And slow the sand with tides; I rot. Am blue meat broken on back-shores, Yours.A Crooked Deal.
Perhaps my eyes are cocked Seeping sour fruit along penetration sweet - Like Love’s languid stupor, female drenched.
Perhaps my mind is dead, worm holed, A burning ship of refuge Where I run to when you kiss me.
Oh, I cannot paint the eyes of God With my love, because you fly To the universe next door when
My lips crease double, and in them your tongue leaks orange passion, honeyed, to my body prostrate and I melt
Acid in the SkyAcid in the sky.Acid in the Sky
Do you see me? Now I am here Like a butterfly my wings beat at the air But never hurt And my eyes plead to yours like the rain Pleads to the desert earth To open and swallow her tears
But still your furrows refused to be plowed And my hands cannot heave the heavy rocks clogging your pores Poisoning your mind with refuse, Refuse refusing to be handled. Let me through! Through so I can show you my life
And let your blood see that mine is clotted
And cold And needs to be hearted Heated I am here. Do you not see m
A passing spring.Passing Spring.A passing spring.
I am the wildflower flavor of dew Dripping wet woman’s scent into night. Look at me, for I am the meat white deep in the sparrow’s breasts, Crawling agonies like fallen leaves. This hiss wind caressing the open palms, Suicidal, Of trees This is me
Sad flaking bark, brittled life, Breaking a blunt back open to gape jawed, Spewing soft gold saliva to the soil.
Here, here – fellow follies- Watch me as I die in molten amber throes, As a sacrificial blood I am slaughtered within the bowel house of sta
Death of a Tuscan Farmer.Rodolfo rises from bed this morning for the first time in months, accompanied by the punctuation of aching, creaking sighs escaping his joints like yeast bubbles. His feet cannot feel the rough plank floor through their thick and horny callouses. Stretching broadly, he smiles.Death of a Tuscan Farmer.
“Il suo tempo è venuto,” his family is saying, heads bowed around his bed. His time has come.
Rodolfo envelopes his fleshless bulk in his oldest rough overalls. The dirt is washed into the cloth by now instead of washed out. The fabric feels, against his loose skin, like the land. Like the grainy, enveloping grit of the earth he
