Mummy Fruit

Trees full of forgotten things,
dangling from vines,
suspended on their umbilicals.
Dried by the frost,
withered and wanting
for hands, fingertips, teeth,
beaks, any trace of
contact.
Lost in the season,
in spring they remain,
garish and staring,
empty, rotting,
yet surrounded by such
beautiful blooming.

Looking For A Knife

Well, yes, it’s true that I
gained possession of this knife by stealing it,
oh, six years ago;
but regardless,
I would very much like to find it –
It is not in the couch cushions, not under the bed,
not slipped ‘neath a dresser or
in the doghouse waiting to be fed,
it is not in my hand,
not in my pocket,
not in my heart, but stuck in my head,
and there’s no worse thought for me,
at the moment,
than wondering where I’ll steal my next knife.

Moving East

This house has been steeping for three long and painful years;
The brew’s as bitter as the halt of a career.
Pour out the pot;
take that last shot,
I know it won’t save us,
but I might just save myself.
I’m going east,
You’re going to hell,
and I just can’t care, can’t care,
not in the least,
Can’t care where your dreams dwell.

You always taught me that a stitched wound doesn’t scar.
my face is spotless, but the wounding went too far.
I’m done wishing and I’m done bleeding,
I’m moving east,
wherever the night may lead me.

In a Damp Winter

acorns, and the little red berries that
pop on the tongue.
the click of jaws,
specialized teeth for pulping,
finding the sweetness
beneath the shell,
within the fruit.

something louder than a bee,
more painful than a horsefly,
a crack like an old ash falling.
blood, ancient instincts, the pumping of legs
through the autumn muck.

I might be safe here,
where the red maple leaves
coat the ground, where
my trail is hidden in their
sanguinity. I will rest,
just for a moment.
build up my strength.

it is hard to get up,
and my eyelids are heavy,
and the snow is falling so daintily
it is hard to imagine anything wrong with the world.
perhaps,
beneath this blanket,
I will rest a while longer,
and in the spring I will bloom.

Begonias

Pluck the sweet pink-and-whites,
trace their ruffles, blushing
fingertips on lips;
warmth and the smell of
melting caramel.

Some sweetness lingers;
some beauty,
touching the wrong mouth,
leaves death in its wake.

Just Like Everyone

I’m just like everyone,
I’ve got copper slipping through my brains,
copper lurking in my blood,
just like everyone,
I’m
just like everyone,
I lie awake and don’t know why
I lie to your face and
say goodbye,
I’m just like everyone,
I’ve got copper slipping past my tongue,
copper leaking from my gums,
just like everyone,
I’m
just like everyone,
A loose collection of wires and dust,
just like everyone,
spitting out numbers,
throwing up rust,
with no reason for it,
no reason why,
I’m
just like everyone,
I’ve got copper beating through my brains,
just like everyone,
copper in every mote of me.

weep

these tears do not fall like rain,
no,
they drip like corrosive oil-
slowly-spreading rainbows in the mud
leaking from a barely-functioning engine
that smokes and wheezes at every start.
There is no grace in this,
there is no virtue,
only the guileless signals
of a machine in need of repair.