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The Xylophone is Blaze
Voltage or diabetic, my hands.
We crossed the river pirouetting
on buoys. Predictions of sunshine.
Come over now, my hands flutter.
Did you believe you were good
as the rust-dulled axe, the go there
& be happy? On a beach
of violin skins we turned into lightning,
or didn’t, but smoked too fast,
attacking. Our chests tightened
with glee. Swaggering. Hip-tight
to the rough bark of perverted trees,
we shouted bloody, lips cowboy tall,
knick-winged & dusty.
I waited all day for you to tell me
that love is what I hate about myself.
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A Country Mile of Soft
Do it, the ocean wept
this morning. No one will
know. I burned
the autographs.
Licked crayon-wax
from my fingers
to celebrate waking.
I wallpapered nude
so when I flipped
into the down-dog,
I became the jumping
bean’s slow cousin.
This is the New West.
The la la in sagebrush,
a magic-strummed scenery.
Last night was guns
& confetti, an elephant-
sized centrifuge & we
were spic & span,
tongued safe & clean.
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