it was yesterday
in an ice cube
when I saw them in the ice.
when I looked up from the ice water
everyone was singing the same
empty song, as if they didn't
know what time it was.
I couldn't tell if I was alone.
I disappeared, looking at their hands
as they walked
carefully along the beach.
they took my hand
and I felt my breath
catch in the cold.
they took me to John Muir's ghost
sitting on a tree stump
and his eyes were full of fields,
tears, and lost valleys,
he took us to California
(we had a great time.)
I looked out again from the ice cube.
just to make sure.
and I shivered
as they looked
at the empty bar stool blankly,
but no one really seemed
they forgot the rule of flight, in madness:
could not be priced
could not be bartered
for the reality of flowers
or how fun sex was
before the ocean was polluted
and everything wild
and all the money was worth
less than the trees it was
he took one last look at the ocean.
his hand closed over hers.
their hair was long
like a luxury, like fields.
it blew in the wind and
they watched the waves
was all that was left,
glittering on the surf.
keeping warm by staying close.
the concrete and glass was
cool on their backs.
sharing the rest of the air,
looking up for a planet
to jump to
among all those bright stars
they could no longer see
after the telescopes exploded.
at a time
sometimes maybe they spoke
each other's names,
they held hands.
the winds blew them away.
everyone seemed so blind,
one last look at the ocean
roll over, wheeler dealer time,
flick a brick into a spot of crime,
singe the sparkles in her eyes,
sparks from her flying surgeon wild mind,
... cut, while sleeping, winking, fatally,
seventeen and thirty-two dozen,
million-ten silences, scalpels
frozen axle spokes, ruby-studded axes slice
into a single greeting card rainbow,
the gleeful gnome frolicking underneath,
glittering simple man, embracing the
fetid charm of hot pink, and fully-lined,
straight jackets blowing across a glowing emerald lawn,
glinting gumdrop eyelids flower on the sugar-coated screen,
throw them magic money for tasting Mr. Clean,
selling six slick sex scandals with the twist of some hip,
or the slant of her mouth on a zesty chicken wing
freed from the flaming obelisk yet draped in stinking tar
the golden flea he leadeth thee, he bleeding in the sunshine
at twenty-three for free, roll over, quite dead the nimble
Do you mind?
after Tienamen Square, watching CNN
she eats flowers on Tuesdays, blue ones, otherwise she doesn't care
her eyes turn blue, flown away the petals, sparks from her tongue
she wakes up late Wednesdays and of course years wondering where she has
dreamed and where she was real, asleep in her screams, tears the sheets of
paper from her dandelion body without a wish
Thursdays she reads the sky-winds, listens to all clouds, nibbling on her
fingers like a squirrel who knows the storm, scatters up her mind to look
across and down, up without ground
the petals are so dry by Friday and on curbs and corners she sells them as
feathers to tourists
to whom everything quaint has a price
and she dance, and she dance, and dance until she float
Saturday her lover haunts her past but does not find her diamonds and her
breasts they bud for him and she swell and bloom with blood
Sundays all is dream of youth and maybe her fruit thrive and
fall into their mouth with truth
the ice of Monday chills her through to sap,
before they leave they burn the harvest remaining,
and he leave her writhing with loss
in the flame of his mouths the vision smelted into blade
for the pruning of her deaths, counter of her cycle