GERMS ARE EVERYWHERE -
doorknobs, these sheets, your mouth – they all have been
enswathed.  The sky is full of dust, and what
settles is just a start.  The mind, much too
thin, never helps itself, and the body, although asleep,
is wary on the inside.  These are things
that every werewolf must know well.  Surface wounds
hurt most – no line, no word, is safe – when sliced
from some core, so, when asked why the paradox is dull
and the conceit so cheap, just respond
that I too am open to critique, ready
for some proposal, anything, really,
and that’s how it all began, looking up,
desperate for want of something else, to catch
that wrong thing, the sperm of an idea.

GERMS ARE EVERYWHERE, but nowhere.
The doorknobs are cleaned with brass – is it yellow, the sheets with whiter than white – is it brown, your mouth with pale pink lipstick.
The sheltering sky is full of dust, and what
settles, settles close to eye (s).
The mind is fat, derogatory, much too swathed in bone, always helps itself to the obvious, and the body, although awake, cannot be wary on the inside or even out or on the road.
These are things that every angel must know well.
Surface wounds never hurt, neither do stab wounds or shaved arteries,  all lines and words are safe as never understood, when sliced or whole , so, when asked why the same is dull and the paradox so cheap, just respond
that I too am never open to critique, ready
for nothing, anything, really, and that’s how it all ended and began, looking down ,
tired for want of nothing else, to catch
that right thing, the germ of an idea.

Morning After

Why did you leave me only lipstick (Unsheltered Sky
Your shade) with which to write?  I smeared it, bleary, across
Mirrors. My color is Might-Have-Been-Dust-in-the-Morning.
A skyfull of angels looked won at us and fixed their makeup
An undertaker’s pink, so in the pink the angels all look alike: alive
Or at least awake.  Meanwhile the words get fat, grow greasy,
Greasepaint, where a diamond might have etched
A paradox acuter and more tender, a fuzzier critique, to cut
You to the quick.  Praying like mantises sharp in surgical
Masks, the angels put on their faces on the wing.
When the sky falls in germs the size of snowballls
Don’t pick fights with angels.  They fight dirty:
Their snowballs are deader than doorknobs, their knuckles bolder than brass

Night Before

I read the blue, or is it purple, lipstick on my lips,
Writing.
Reflects from the mirrored face, my own or yours?
Can I tell you that angels in the glass, they look at me, white wings, or are they grey,
Open and close as the night moves before.
I paint these wings to make them speak, blue or is it purple.
Crematorium smoke blinds the angels eyes, and I look, you see.
Should I sleep and wait, should I wake and wait, should I wait?
The alive are slow,
The alive are dead.
Praying like a mantis mask I wait for you (or you for me),
Angels never fight, how can they? they are wings.
I paint the lipstick on my lips
And so make a road.

Centerlines

A road between your lips?  Some path less traveled.
Our bodies turned into road maps, simple and banal, easy to read.
Unfold their slow blues and purples: their flat promises
Will hold you back just as you feel you’re moving forward
(Like leaning into a mirror).  The breath of an
Eyelid, the flutter of heartbeat, the skipping
Of a center line.  Fold the rectangles
Back like insect wings, brittle and replaceable,
You wait for an exit, an offramp, a truckstop;
You miss your turnoff, turned off, you miss me.
The road was painted on the map, its distances skin-deep.
Next time you see my face barging into your mirror
Shake out the map, wet your lips, whisper, and I’ll get
Lost in two dimensions, white and gray, besides but not between.

A Middle Line

Sometimes the leopard lips lick spots
Downward.
A line in fur, a spotted picture maze of fantasy, never twists the tongue around a word;
Distorted by (or in) a photograph, flattens, makes two dimensions.
Carapaces, horns like dildos, rhinos unravel on the shining paper.
I want a real live leopard, yellow hair
That twists and dances. And I wait -
You wait, for a bus.
They always both get lost;
Lost in dimensions.
Next time you find a mirror shake out the image, hold it up and
Stretch it out like licked wet skin; leopard spots reflect
The late bus arriving later, it moves besides
The running yellow fur lines.

Tarnish

Can the leopard shed its silvering?
Can the mirror change its spots?
The looking-glasses turned themselves in-
Side out and showed their true colours:
Tawny, brazen.  Predatory they were,
And feral. Large cats of glass shattered,
Then reversed themselves, reverted to their tains.
Nature was read in bush and dust.

The poem took place indoors: shun the out-
Side.  Mirrors eat experience: they devour
It, their jaws crunching.  It’s the sound
You hear when you think no-one’s
Looking.  The patches on our eyes are
Just tarnished silvering, the blindspot’s mirror.

Spotless

Wipe away the pearl spotted sound, so I can
Love a memory? Remember, I hear the
Silver cat walk through
A lamp lit city tree.
Shadow daubs a whiskered face
From Ulthar. Nourished and sedentary now.
Nature is full of such illusions.
Don’t bury the half eaten reflection.
Blind, nature sinks inside; outside nerves create a sound-
Less jangled.
You see when you think no-one can hear you.
My love crafted bed
Is clean, there is no stain.
And the mirrored cat walks – still on the white sheets.

ABC

A is for Adder, a Snake to the Ladder,
the Asp in the Apple to poison the Day,
B is for Barbara, ahbrahcahdahbrah!
C is for Cobras, and seeing Serpents in C,
Coils of the Seasons, caught in your Sight
The antagonistic Enchanters are
Seeming and Spelling and Seeing and Saying.
D is for Drama, the Eternal Leave-and-Return,
to declaim all the Roles and to don the Disguise.
E is for Eden, sweet Garden of Freedom,
where we still eat the Apples of each other’s Eyes!