Lunchy Hunch

Don’t you wish that after gorging yourself with a frothy red velvet concrete shake (decked out with rainbow sprinkles, cake bits, and whipped cream) that your butt would boat instead of your stomach???

Temple of Years

Phoebe’s bottle blonde
Phoebus
flies a sail from
star pointed
Andromeda dog years.

Sorghum ziggurats,
raised to a yonic
maraschino cherry
high priestess,
glisten like syrup
in the sun.

This temple of years
is a down dog pose
with a time signature
of slow.

Thoughts Over Lunch

Lines of silver blood
run like a pipeline leading
diamond colored moonlight
to a tap.

The faucet gushes
tiny threads of moonshine;
hidden in the shiny ponytail
of flowing dark is the smallest
human being that ever was:

White bridal falls
plunge over a moon precipice.
This waterfall holds the girl in its hands;
in the river, her waterlogged,
translucent dress moonwalks
in depths unplumbed for
lack of gravity.

Monday Fun Day: The Diary Files

Here is a scandalous excerpt from my personal, juicy-licious diary of 2 1/2 years:

Whitish light makes a jigsaw puzzle: a porcelain necklace of sky behind the trees. The soft, supple, bold, fresh color of plant flesh reverberates lowly. The little hands of the profoundly green trees make the sky into a gem of logic:

The sky is a thing of serial beauty: of bone tinctured leather cut outs; of fulgid negative spaces; of mien and curvature akin to the quadratic alphabet: such is the bone sky.

Picket fence white apartment balconies make tire tracks on reality. Between each blanched piano key of the balustrade is a sliver of colorless air; is a [silvered] coffee cake of metaphysical substance.

Every transparent candy-stripe of oxygen hostels sequestered chunks of life: invisible triangular lines ramify, in the lingua franca of [semantic consciousness], the anatomy of a broken house.  Life is broken into [sweetish] pieces, like peanut brittle.