Corn blue paper coin moon
out of reach of
Corn blue paper coin moon
out of reach of
Seaside fantasies of crushed velvet waves, cubed granular salt, and inky blue depths of silk, seude, and panda fur flood my mind. Tepid palm leaves trap equatorial steam and cause warm rain to peel the yellow wallpaper in my bedroom mind.
I pick up the phone, covered in pink, fluffy, faux fur. I call my bestfriend, Niobe, and we talk for hours about the beach house we’re going to build when we run away together.
We’ve got everything planned. I can see it:
Seashells and barnacles tup with pure gold doorknocker earrings in our jewelry boxes; we stay up late listening to the ocean moan to god while we watch lascivious red light specials and dream about skinny dipping.
In the afternoon on the next day, our golden retriever jaunts giddily as we chase it with a stick, laughing like lunatics, playing reverse fetch. Down in the baked, luminous sand we nuzzle our dog, Kizzie, and eat whatever we want–and I mean whatever we want.
I hold Niobe’s hand, and wipe mustard from the corners of her crumby mouth, licking my fingertip sensually afterwards. I’ve seen a lesbian couple do this in an obscure movie.
On misty morning walks, we’re mistaken for lifetime partners and lovers as we sweep the gilded sandman from each other’s canthi.
Together, we own exactly one bike that we ride every Thursday to the local grocers. The bike is canary yellow with a glossy finish, a large, brown wicker basket, and a shiny bell. Its a Vintage make with huge wheels and ribbons on the handlebars.
(I name our bike Rita, after the Italian ice place where I met Niobe as a gap toothed, big headed kid. She had dimples and a satiny kiddie perm that produced sumptuous pigtails to past her shoulders. She bought me ice cream and we’ve been inseparable since.)
Niobe rides on the handlebars, her full bottom making a soft, inverted heart in her distressed blue jeans. I steer badly, inciting her mock ire.
On a straight stretch of road, I stop steering , but keep peddling. I cinch my arms around her doughy waist, my nose pressed to her sweaty back, my fingers spread and preying for higher, softer ground; I search for her sweet fruit until I break her boughs; her leaves and scented, sap studded branches raining down on me as we collapse into the grass; sunshine, bike, and all.
That’s when I realize that we are not friends.
Because, ‘scuse me as I get blunt: sexual peaches ain’t for no apple-pickin’ friends; just like cobbler ain’t for bad kids, nor easter egg hunts after church in the hot sun. No. You been the devil’s help in Sunday service all morn. Your mama done sweated her lortdang press out and aint waiting in nobody’s hot ass sun for your bad ass to find a sulfur smellin’ egg in a bush.
So no, I don’t get to squeeze on Niobe’s pleasurable bubblegum bubble curves, Niobe tells me. She says no as she tenderly leads my rough, slim hands to all of the places I am absolutely under no circumstances to touch. She says she is a Missourian who believes in showing and not telling.
It is here, that we have our FRIED GREEN TOMATOES rubicon moment: my fingers graze her chocolate dipped milk mounds, part her pillowy legs, bathe in sacred coves of pink salt stone in the quiet grass. The road is empty and we foment all alone like Mentos in a glass of cherry Coke.
We’ve got it all planned out, or at least I do.
You part your tears
with a seaglass hairbrush; the chocolatey, mink brush bristles
paint pallid watermarks around your
wet-lashed eyes, like magic pipe frosting on papyrus.
I watch the snow,
that only I can see,
fall morbidezza when you walk my way; Psychedelic dream winds lift rings of cigar smoke
from your hair in a dais like aureole;
and I realize that it’s happening again: to me, of course.
Not to you.
The silent, dreamsicle snow that
percieve as both real
happens to me;
or rather, to sound less passive, I make it happen, like heroic magic.
It is my magic. It is my zoo, and I hope you’ll buy a yellow matinée ticket
and come see me be ringmaster of the symphonic snowdrifts of my heart.
SoCal leather palms bleed shoe polish greens into the slush of warm peach breezes. Salt water sparkles on the naked, gilded sweet potato shoulders of a pole dancer; she’s taking a midday swim in the deep blue velvet before dinner. Then she’ll be off to work.
Idling near the sun-blanched boardwalk is a white Ferrari. It’s upholstered in sex, smashed funfetti birthday cake, and lemony quaaludes. The unidentified driver sleeps, baking in sun.
The car speakers are crusted in cake frosting courtesy of last nights A-Anon concessions; Zinfandel and Grey Goose leak from a scuffed sports bottle onto the lambskin in the backseat.
The man in siesta tries not to notice Friday Khalo weeping in the arms of an orangutan in the car seat next to him.
Maybe, his Ferari is a Lamborghini with pink tinted windows, fetid orchids and pineapples carpeting the interior, and a pair of disembodied Marilyn Monroe breasts riding shotgun.
Closing my eyes is the answer.
takes the roof off my mind;
I step into high water:
Your brown Mississippi eyes
peel the dingy pink
wallpaper from my
parched, adobe soles
Your skilled phalanges are filaments of warm,
muddy water and cane sugar; you are chocolate waves of
Summer magnolia clinging to windows opening into other windows; your eyes
lap at the tiny antebellum dollhouses between my painted plantation toes,
and sink me like a desert well.
You turned the key in my ignition only
to drive me into the lake. I remain a secret life, dead to you,
but teeming like a maritime rumor.
and I might never die.
Venetian wineglass reds and baked, love letter greige appear in photographic Vermeer splendor. Within gilt framework, a British rose is lined with mink lanugo and peanut butter and jelly umbras. Clothing litters the floor.
Pillow soft suedes of buff and bisque wrap round buttery dulce de leche integument; cakey stomach grades into chiffon breasts; cream puff mammeries taper into whipped mousse nipples. Dormouse hued areolas, cut from upcycled raw silk ballet slippers, are soft to the glistening tongue; saliva saké on satin.
Amaretto almond liqueur sluices over velvet rope thighs; between the sex lines is a swollen cherry cordial; it’s suspended in cloudy honeycomb amber, wrapped within a lace g-string; a pearl of antique black truffle rests in a rustic mons clamshell of espresso semi sweet chocolate.
The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.
The star facet on this American cut diamond is a canapé frosted with supersensible beluga caviar:
friable eggs of dark light are wetly globular; they rest on the bezel of hope chest cantos. On her bride day,
Catherine-wheels of color pull karma from thin exnihilo and place dimensions of want within a jeweled safe box cathexis: this diamond.
Such a small stone harbors desires beyond the filamentous reach of felicific calculus. Right or wrong,
she’ll walk down the wynd in graywacke lace and gosling ivory; her gowany hair-trigger hexerei
producing a greenhouse haet rose in the decanter hued grappa. Liquor the color of water will bleed if you look at it hard enough, and, miracle of miracles, you’ll see modern zymurgy: from water, brandy.
Eden casts a love
spell of lavender
in the wild rose thicket;
a tattered, glossy ribbon
hangs from the garden’s
in the wake of
from fecund flowering,
flesh of woman.
Summer is in the back of her throat, wrapped in a delicate wax paper mache of tropic banana leaves.
The clouds in the sky above her look like puffy coat lapels, or like pubescent pouts post the negative vacuum of a shot glass per the Kylie Jenner lip challenge.
All around, the leaves craft aeolian chrysalises; you can taste the pre-gold fulvid beer, and the sumptuous boudin noir in their pigments.
Leaves of Uruguayan blood pudding lie crisp in the grass; next to them, icy orange peels with sugar rinds that are buttoned down with tumeric candied dates. Rich head cheese jellies and prairie oysters paint colors of carné on ash blonde lawns.
Autumnby paints gold dust on underbrush flanking the dirt path through the woods. Her chocolate brown afro curls turn a cool blue in the dusk.
She is swathed in an oversized white plush cowl, her bluish curls making a halo around her mahogany face.
Her magic swirls around her; fall time fortunes fill an ivory tusk cornucopia with the pollen of golden wish dust: crabapples, hard cider, maize moonshine, fermented berries and buttery gourds tumble from her lips into the fog.
Autumnby hangs wishes from the coat hooks of peeling tree bark, from the lose threads in dew studded spider webs, and from the figgy purplish-sables of rotting rose thistles.
Have you seen this little witch granting wishes in your neck of the woods today?
Weft: all my
silver linings loop in the gossamer warp of
Your brown eyes are silver at the roots, geyser-swept like a witan’s feathered coif;
scattered like penny kissed well wishes in mage-indigo gales;
(your) Eyes are svelte as limestone bell towers, and
cool as castled salt stone &
iceberg-greys on gilded waters peopled by whiskered seals and floes;
Your eyes (which are Repunzel-hair long with unbleached roots, and Cinderella slipper in color) stop me with their speaking.
letters of g o l d that
when I asked you to marry