for the boys

it is cold outside
and i am on the floor of my old room
one cloth knee tucked in
one leg stretched out beyond the books and carpet
the boys are in my doorway again
holding twin beers
and leaning on opposite sides of the wood

One is seven feet taller
than me
with a chin like a good pork roast
and the long face of a lumberyard
his socks show, because his pant legs
are short, and his teeth show
because he is happy.




the Other is
looking up to him
and grinning
he is barechested
and showing the way muscles wrap around
his shoulder
that he has leaning against my door.
his curly gold hair absorbs all the light
and the room is a little dimmer
because of it.

new poetry

I am writing for the first time... every day, and the words are changing their metallic flavors in my mouth as i am writing this. the words i thought tasted like pennies, now taste like soil. others that tasted like milk, now taste like rubber. who knew this could happen again, anew in existence. i have a whole world, cities with buildings and pedestrians, and cattle rolling around in my hot mouth, over the tongue. is this heaven?

fall number 2

Fall
how luminous you are:
a bright green door thinking
during a pickled morning frost

the gray morning sky
the same as the evening
Time has hushed her hair and mouth
clouds turn
placid tentacles
of silver milk placenta moving
like seaweedacross the tall horizontal plain


contrast

ignites the treehills on fire
with electric green from the october coil
green white yellow hum
charred the light and infused it
with sun from a wild dream that smelled like Jasmine

and the smell of stamped
wet tracks; the red rusty footprint
of the dead old pine needle
on the damp black pavement (slate oil)
(in a line they look like racoon hands painted autumn

the sweet dog smell of rain
skirting the road, you know
the trees love this smell
and they quiver in dazzlement
of their new radiance
against the brood





the light through glass
makes translucent lace
by shadow dance
on the bright cream wall.

part of a longer poem about fall.

n the fall, i played soccer.



the grass was cold and wet and smelled

like moon

over jade.

we sat in silence

rolling up our socks

over our little

beggar knees

bruised around

the cresent

and ribs showing

the red and white cleats that slipped on our skunky tongue feet

seal skin

the feel of the

rubber knobs

press into soil

our duffle bags

smelled like road kill

flat over

luminous white

line of wet road


the sweat.

the sweat

made our noses

pink gums

and my curly sea hair

blowing upward smoke

feel tight tshirt

twisiting against

my side

the short orange cones

glowing houses

under the crucifix

field lights

like planet arm

silent

the legs moving oil rigs

silent

the trees bending over

over the fence

silent

the huff

from our lung,

silver fog

silent

our ponytails.

the sweat

in the cold

8 o’clock

nothing left

but gasps &

the slap of the crumbly rubber ball

against thigh

made the skin

go red

bumpy

and sting

among

the frost