Pillbox for an angelfish
Published in The saltbush review
Rosy pipe on a bone /
Squelch & stemless— /
Afraid of the steep /
Foaming valley /
Or the dark /
Marsh nectar /
—
Oscillation /
Equilibrium: /
Pill box for an angelfish /
—
For buffeting fin /
For royal blue thermal /
Body— self imposed /
Or thought to be /
—
Saltwater /
I leap like flame /
On a pier— /
I let his cat /
—
Knead on me /
Or I don't know /
If I should warn /
Of reflective /
Surfaces mad /
Like moons.
—
Bad intention /
Free & silk /
To frolic in field— /
The rows of blueberries /
Bloated like fins.
Claude Monet's Woman with a parasol
Published in A thin slice of anxiety (Anxiety press)
He eats off a cheese board
due to his underbite, & if he
wanders off I cradle him.
God may be a crook in his moped.
In a rush to kill minds before the
bodies— my god, slow down, (you might hurt him).
Robbie has dementia which
means pausing on my foot before
passing me by, to inspect an
opaque blue bucket beside the toilet, (he's seen before).
(Dementia means to
extinguish envy) from desire—
his pale fur sways on a hillside,
gentle drift & fabric ripple /
mint parasol / petticoat.
He gets into bed via
plastic gray steps / dementia
means to (dream for a few
months more).
Each apartment door looks / the same—
/ but he can recall /
being fed purple grapes when
in ancient Greece. Robbie was
a poet you see, he amounted
to manuscripts of epics &
/ sublimity / he will bump into
doors of neighbors for a few
months more— who recalls,
perhaps (a few years more).
Death succubus
Published in Overland journal
A spray of mottled Vivian Maier's
sling themselves onto each other in
lutescence. A friend says when you die
there's nothing, only darkness; &
I respond with of course not when
there's photographs. Art is unnatural
like a paper chewing gum wrapper
because it elevates human experience—
now everyone jumps off cliffs. I strut
on a renaissance bridge, horrible,
large, with articulate hieroglyphs. I wear
a handmade mink sling— my arm broke
as I was draining my basin of sepia,
it didn't warn me because it's immoral
it had to, I would have responded
with distraught, disturb. There was a
cave I slept in, with obscured evidence
of the dead left, rolleiflex in mouth, I
journey to a bird who has no interest in
frivolous arts, convince her to stay.
The moon
Published in Grub Street literary magazine
If the universe talks, like whisk the air &
a body lands on your fingertips—
will you smell beauty on your shoulder like perfection
unable to be captured, only experienced thus far.
I have a friend in stem & she tells me
perfection isn't real—
will she differentiate real-ness from existence
unable to jot down perfection's facial features.
like beauty, it needs a delivery device or
white hole to peer out of thus—
therapists haven't caught up with modern discoveries
unable to market pills to patients with integrity.
so we grow in the mystery, invite deception
like bees to waterfalls—
you will feel the love that comes with this act of
constant, honest misunderstandings.
— Dorow