Time Of Magic

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 

only I 

percieve as both real 

and sentient 

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.

Frank Ocean Dreams

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.

Sunken Mermaid

The flooding

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.

Sappho’s Wedding

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.

Autumnby The Little Witch

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?

******†*************************

Golden No

Weft: all my

            silver linings loop in the gossamer warp of

your eyelashes. 

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.

There were

letters of g o l d that

answered                no

when I asked you to marry

me.

Friends Make The Best Valentines💝

Roseate curtains of heavy, crushed velvet wend sinuously, revealing a glossy silk lining colored like milk; the gem tinctured fabric frames a large bay window.

Billows of cashmere drape over a window sill seat: it’s upholstered in a syrupy-thick, plush material. I run my fingers over the burnished gold fuzz, leaving an ocean of soft, smoky ripples in the cloth. Every secret touch leaves a ghost here by the large beach facing window.

All around, on hard surfaces, fairy lights (held up by the sorcery of copper wire) spin their infinitesimal, glittering turbines in the indoor twilight. Long, dripping, cylindrical wax candles marry short rotund tealights in the dark. 

A large, aromatic, three wicked candle gives off rich, complex spices; firelit tendrils of floating, silvery smoke invoke a bronzed vegetable garden overrun with thick ivy vines and luscious, mottled orange and white goards.

I recline on the decadent sill seat, taking in surroundings that are frosted with a thick meringue of visual cholesterol. Egg whites tip ombre flames of cinnamon and auburn in the fireplace. I listen to the perfumed apple tree firewood pop and whizz.

On the cedar table there are: matching flutes of champagne; a crystal tumbler of seven year old cherry wine wrapped in a filmy red g-string; a heart shaped box of whiskey infused German chocolates, with several chocolates bitten and painted in dark semicircles of lipstick; and two large, deep China plates filled with Cajun spiced lobster and chicken pasta.

Steam rises from the plates; the food was just taken off of the stove top. My best friend sets the table. She lights a birthday sparkler and puts it in my pasta. I rise from my repose, running a hand over my satiny, negligee-like cocktail dress. 

Who would’ve thought that a year into being a newly minted divorcée, I’d be having the most romantic dinner of my life? I stand barefoot, looking at my best friend of years with my moist, stinging eyes. 

Her gentleness (and sensuality and eroticism) is overwhelming on this day that would’ve swallowed me alive: Valentines day; a day that is simultaneously my birthday, the anniversary of my wedding day, and the day before the day my husband filed for divorce. So yeah, today should suck.

“Are you ready to get smashed while we watch Gilmore Girls, or what?” Riesling says, holding my glittering, birthday plate of pasta.

“You know it, kid.”

********************************

Cool Charlatan Summer

Leaves: detritus of sorrel and cinnamon on the cobblestones; 

the withered foliage is char dark like rye bread; the life shavings (leaves) of an ancient sugar maple litter colonial pumpkin brick like vintage papyrus; The Victorian gingerbread houses are frosted with deciduous magic.

The fallen leaves are angels,

bronzed scions of the Dead Sea scrolls; 

they’re brined in a colubrine vat of time, like another lifetime.

They make a crunchy brunette fricassee, sounding their crisp Tibetan bells for equinox.

Acorns and obelisk shadows compost next to sundried ivy; By the fountain, dusk casts claret and rose liquor on the fallen wild apples: 

little rotund, fawn-brown things that are small and juicy like Logan berries.

Hoarfrost saranwraps clouds, 

and tall thin panes of perennial heliotrope shatter the deciduous sky; grainy bruised pear, 

purple orchid and plum blossom 

drip 

from the fork-tongued wind; ripe, red dahlias make artisanal vineyard spirits out of July’s tepid memories.

Allspice Summer

Golden thorns and amber are in the honeysuckle sangria like bees. Pine needles bleach their emerald fezes blonde. Gold is in the wind: peach wine and myrr with honey. 

Glitter on the still, olive oil 

creek, deep holy green 

like the glass of bottles filled with sparkling water.

Deep holy green, like allspice summer in hospice fading. Anise star and nutmeg curl summer up, like steam, as she takes her last breath.