Blossoms

an army of white blossoms advances, retreats, advances,

retreats

on a black wet road. they weave around the wheels

of industrious, cheerful cars. (did you know Polish troops

fought German tanks on horseback?) pink blossoms, blood.

wind's foghorn desists, and blossoms cluster in piles, sheltering

one another from nightfalling rain. a giantess' hand descends

upon the blossoms, tossing them into the air, into the light of

a streetlamp, into battle again. she dances a little, but then

the giant says "i am apprehensive about everything."

the giantess replies "are you apprehensive about me?"

silence while blossoms advance, retreat, advance,

retreat.

Ghostrain

The Family. friendly fire. so and so hearts so and so,

graffiti on the inside of the Tetanus Express. 

the T.E is situated in a soft, dead, bright field. 

a witch's bad hairday (underbrush) eavesdrops over the empty windows, 

spying on a spiderweb of broken glass. one million MEs. 

dry, dead skin peels away from the rusty bones of the T.E 

revealing various layers of it was but not anymore. 

my anachronistic sister sips sam adams on the corpse of a chair in the 

dining car. she pulls her leather tighter against her 

Monroe chest, practices breaking bottles, cringing and giggling. 

"you're a vision." she says. 

there's someone coming. a couple, all smiles and tee shirts.

they are uninvited cast, intruders in an infinite film about sisters, 

so we chuck our butts, grip the rail and jump out

of the train (as if it were moving) making a beeline to the clunk-mobile, 

peeling out like Thelma and Louise. 

The Good Girl

by the age of ten she had a PHD in neurofire and ten thousand Valentine cards she folded into paper cranes that flew over the Nile, moving Moses through the reeds. 

Envelope

sometimes poems come already written

translated and translated again 

leaving only the language of 

God I don't write them. 

not always but sometimes they come in  floating 

envelopes in dreams unfolding into words

that were sanskrit, for me and about 

ecstasy and sometimes you.

when the most ancient flashlight I know of drifted across 

my linens this morning I remembered this phrase:   

I have hands on my clock for you. 

At Rest

Christ left his cross at the bottom of the stairs,

coming in to watch women cook and 

listen to Muddy Waters. 

he's soggy and his hair hangs down.

he's tired, meaning that his very marrow

is heavy from the fray. 

the women feed him apples,

caramelized in brown sugar,

avocados, warm and

smothered in bragg's. 

To My "Imaginary" Friend -- this isn't a poem.

so your dog says to me, 

"you're not who I want but I'll settle." 

I assure him I feel the exact same way, and allow him

to recede into the back of my knees. allow isn't the

right word, I like it. 

I'd rather stare at your stuffed bunny than sleep or face the day. 

things keep moving. I'd like to be more than just dragged 

along, to do some dragging, as it were. but, the imaginary 

mermaid whose bed this is said it better. it's the youthful

path of/to elimination, and things will fall away faster than I 

can create them, as I created you. 

I have a favor to ask you. don't fall away? 

a person's life is usually too much to ask for. It is always too much to give to someone who didn't ask for it, conditioner smell/problematic eyes notwithstanding. 

peeling my skin from the sheets, I roll a cigarette cigarette fuckyeah cigarette I know it's important but 

why? 

I roll one up and step into a white symposium of birds singing 

"Phaedrus! Phaedrus! Phaedrus!"  

The Garden

Fungirls stroke each other's hair and

garden for mandrakes in secret,

when Funboys aren't there to hear the screaming of

mandrakes, when they touch Fungirls'

finer hairs, and forgetting Fungirls'

names, go off talking in search of Funnergirls,

leaving them bleeding, cooking and eating

Mandrakes.