Among the gray branches of the towering maple,
dark buds emerge overnight. A male cardinal perfects
his song by beginning each song with a series of high-
pitched whistles. Initially, each song ends with four
slower whistles, then five & for a while six is the magic
number until, finally, he settles on seven. Twice he
shifts to a higher branch in the bare tree, I presume,
for better vantage. Still, answers from prospective
mates are not forthcoming.
Across shadowy pews a contralto heaves hymns that
resemble the white teeth of crocodiles. Each hymn is
a tooth slicing shadows as thick as blue fruit falling
through the stained glass windows.
A mask appears, claw marks in red, yellow, white
& green. Eyes painted black. Behind those eyes are
more eyes. Enter them as though youíve fallen from
a cliff to enter yet another set of eyes, another season,
another consciousness. Deep inside enter an orbit until
eyes from beneath the glistening ribs of wild mushrooms
reveal themselves. Suddenly these eyes carpet the thick
floor of the Amazon, & now every dream in the universe
leaps from the humid eyes of the jungle.
I stare into the copper eyes of a black hooded
boa. His eyes transfixed on mine, he tastes heat that
teases my skin. Near the bottom of a bruised jade
shadow, I warm him as a sun might heat its solitary
In San Diego the homeless like large caterpillars
line the sidewalk. Inside cotton cocoons, they dream
of their bodies transforming into dark liquid. Like
a ragged army, they warm the chilly concrete. Neon
flashing their paralyzed bodies ignites tiny flickering
glances at roses
tossed at her feet.
sequined with diamond scales.
leaps from her eyes!
consisted of white-throated sparrows
& halved pomegranatesó
beautiful capillaries engraved
over the jaguar soul of ice.
picked from a tree,
& now I feel like this pearó
little rough on the outside
that snaps between your teeth.
as willows outside a Toyota
become a Monet,
while the heart of this afternoon
becomes a Rembrandt shadow
beating like a fist.
when considering things
as they could be compared to what
weíve made them,
spirals from the palette of DalŪ.
like mice feet
tapping the roof
of my tiny capsule.
A DC blues
stations leaks guitars
that resemble canines,
slashing caribou that migrate
a shopping center parking lot.
guitars turn their attention to me.
as is peculiar to feral guitars
on certain days,
they glance at each other
with kerosene eyes
before turning away
across the rain-soaked tundra
of this suburban wilderness.
next to me
says he has nothing to write about,
(& he might know whatís best),
he knows of
(we donít actually declare them anymore),
no asteroids about to vaporize
& no exotic fruits
blazing the infinite.
a vermilion pear
absorbing switchblades of afternoon sunlight
through our lace curtain,
the same light
across each pearl from a strand
stretched across a writing desk,
would be nice.
But no pear.
compose a smoking reality poem,
one that leaves
my burned-out day
of the steel husk
that cradles my soul.
to the tick
of the Halloween clock
with a witch
stabbing her broom
into the ether.
As my dog
piled like pancakes
on a slate coffee table
& unravel the symmetry
punctuated by the heavy wheels
of a delivery truck
of a Whirlpool icemaker.
a northern mockingbird
from the bird clock
in my den,
from the kitchen wall clock
the brass eyelashes
of a new hour.
ones recruited for chores
& utilitarian minutiae,
but the mascara eyes
above the vermilion
of an invisible pear.
if the man next to me
was right all alongó
writing about today.
then heíll never lift
my invisible pear
by its glowing waist
its resinous light!