The Girl from Crete

The thread of blood trickled

down the scales of the snake goddess.

Her labyrinth penetrated by love

and loss. Eyes follow along the walls

in sea-foam shade. The Minotaur walks

alone. Her purist areas persist

in memory. Alone she sits, back thrust

upon her. Her thread makes him flee.

It reasserts her purity, and yet,

demonizes her nakedness.

.

His shadow follows him across the sky.

At the edge of the inevitable cliff;

robes in the wind, bland colors,

low light, blue sky with sharp cloud.

To him, her name an epithet. Alone

in the Piazza. Long shadows and backs.

Silk thread one direction, blood trail the other.

.

As he left she slept with hand on stomach;

crying that won't come on her mind.

Her hand bloodied and cracked, imitating

life. She pulls on her pubescent hair.

.

She boarded a ship carrying trees and arrows

to leave the island of her birth.

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The Blade of Grass

She is a blade of grass amongst the forest.

Her eyes like dual sunrise

peek from behind the sheets

as the old man’s hand creaks

open the Elmwood door.

Two cracks in the ceiling let the rain

run in streams to her eyes

as she sweeps the book of Daphne in the drawer.

She tries to stay still, her eyes return to night.

The laurel tree rubs the window. A mosquito

bangs against the glass. The man sits upright

near the hearth in an oak chair

that cracks on the floor boards like a forest fire.

The sound of the room like an empty well, drips

along the walls echo. Her eyes now sunset,

crackling fire heating the old mans hands. Her body tries

to fall through the bed

to burrow in dirt like a worm.

Her heart a hummingbird,

ants whittle her skin into pieces.

He sips cold tea by the surging fire. The shadows blow

across the ceiling, the wood

black but fireflies dance in glowing circles.

He hears the sound of wind over fire,

air sucks the flames up the chimney to release.

There is a candle dying on the bedside drawer,

wind sharpens the blade, extinguishes the candle,

the tall shadow nears the bed. Her roots dig deeper,

and she ascends above the bed

ripping up the floorboards. Her skin thickens,

the ants now lifeless, the hummingbird

leaves. Her eyes daylight

above the wold

she sees a blade of grass

clinging to his sole.

---

The Tongue's Purpose

A handful of water – intrinsic, poetic -

like it molded its wet form for millennia

there. Only certain senses can detect it

like a whisper

A distant hum you feel, but its across the galaxy

a sway of the tall cedars or pine,

or something of the kind, that slowly

etched an echo through the landscape; claimed

battleground backbones had scoliosis.

Our toes itched to meet the hyacinth faces.

The water slipped from our ravens dish

into the faults and spaces of the bone core.

We had voices then – louder than whispers

but the rising tide drowned them out.

The caverns of eyes inspect

the ravens breath – abyss spreads.

They are ghosts – trapped in space/time -

heads arched back like sparrow wings -

appendages felled revealing metallic

consistency. Fleshy yellow intent

with radio obtuseness.

Clouds begin to look like roads

to the distance, acute triangular visuals.

Bodies rest next to their missing limbs.

Pseudo-hypnotic impulse like

the semblance of biomorphic concurrences,

the currency of motion, charged particles

react without consciousness. Surreal

reflectivity in a mass of conscious detachment.

The weight is weightless there

but the souls are labored.

We see surrounding and form

through a prism of shapelessness.

Souls react, faces just monitor.

We begin to see 1’s and 0’s.

The program is nearly complete.

The buzz begins to hiss, the radio

frequency is watery and weak;

It sounds more and more like a swaying

sycamore, dancing in the wind

but no one pays any attention anymore.

It falls to the ground floor, silent songs

remind no one of loss. The tongue

absent in its absolute purpose

---

Fogging

the fog banks flowed over the mausoleums

     in the night

changing the engravings to suit the       modern world

they speak in endless graveyard shifts

    the sky rains funnel clouds like mothers tears

and all I can hear are fog horns from white marble steps

sirens with human faces heat blood 

in vats of patriotism and other ideological mis-

representations of humanity

you think your life is a christmas tree

but your hanging all your ornaments on the same branch

your looks won’t hold forever

your teeth may look like pearls but they cut like diamonds

there’s an open mic on a dimly lit stage speaking truth

while the lights focus on dry tongues regurgitating 

hopeless metaphors on the news

ripping at promises like 

            wet paper towels

the fingertips keep reaching

but there’s not enough friction for movement

your morality casts a shadow like the mid-day sun

it’s hot and narrowly focused

at one time you nearly broke this

     the backs were heavy

the fog remains pervasive

zip up your pants 

your scandals are showing

you can claim its luck 

but its easy to get the larger side of the wishbone when you control 

both sides

linguistic battlement facade is all you hide behind

  spitting burning arrows from the deck

but the foam bricks are swaying in the wind

you don’t want a war with ants

lethargic letters falling from gaping 

mouth doesn’t cover it anymore

these cash cows only produce dirty c.r.e.a.m.

your words flick around like a flame

                                              burning those too near

they echo from caskets carrying living souls

that      crawl       across the grave dirt

ground   trying to escape the low-lying fog

you lay out the powder yourself 

now we’re all snorting lines of exidust

in chains of your lexiconquistadors making

we tie ourselves to the ground and struggle to get out of your imprinted tracks

the political diatribe is a logical landslide

                          your policies are wasted ejaculates tossed in the garbage

on

used up towels

they could have been somebody

look

        we aren’t babies trying to walk 

            when we haven’t mastered crawling yet

we are a society forced to crawl when we know we can run

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