Bad Behavior.

I tried not to be in love with lightning-
the way it tiptoes across the sky, and dashes into the clouds.
The clouds are angry, like lions, they are selfish and unnerving.
They are not petrified. I think our ancestors were petrified,
that they were unified in the realizations that all things are kept unturned.

My words are not my sorrows. They are not thrown into the piles of rocks
on the ground, they are not the brokneness that my life has become.
I try to make up new things for children to play with, and keep the thoughts to myself.
A young girl in Spain tries to take my boyfriend; tries to open a can of worms.
She is selfish in her reasons, as planes fly into buildings and heads are buried
in the sand. She moves like lightning, her thoughts are fluid as water running through
the stream. She thinks she is home. She writes fake letters and puts them in jars
and sends them out to the ocean, hoping to find some peace, some serenity, some inner
home.

She is turmoil. She is the sound of the ocean that rings with the voice, the sound of
summer.

This is summer. Things are in summer. A man and a tan and a pile of rocks-
he jumps on his engine, and turns it on, it sounds like firecrackers in the stillness.
She says goodbye to her words, to the night that is dark. She is like a ghost.

Make the Canvas Bleed.

A torrid voices of imagery
A fresh green crown in the grass.

Dapples lightly in upturned voices;
The birds sing songs in summer
Cows low to the low red moon;
I walk solidly on ghost footsteps.

Old doorknobs bend in June;
A baby suckles on a mama’s breast.
The cattails select John’s choices,
We don’t know if it’s a bummer.

I try to rhyme; we won’t let it pass.
The meadow is green in the cold snow.
Volcanoes spout ash from below;
The cold wind blows.

You are the picture of a photograph.
We realize the still sound of the
Brownstown.
Tomorrow is not a bent spoon.
I am alone.
Birds flock on heels in June.

The wind is a sixteen bottles of symmetry;
You aren’t mad, but you aren’t walking quietly.
A torrid voices of imagery,
Talks to me and the cold wind blows.
You don’t know that I am angry.
You don’t know that cattails bleed.

Falls In Snow.

The trust falls in the snow.
The trust is not in anything.
The trust is in him-he sees, but does not
See. Do not try to climb your way out of
Trust. Do not block yourself from the stairs.

The stars are bright tonight.
Above us, the stars shine, sparkle,
Twinkle-
Night becomes nothing. Night is not
Anything.

Fierce realization. Fierce persistence.
Nothing to do. Nothing that can be done.
Homeward bound, I am caught in
The rhythm of the different shades-
The shades of sunglasses.
The words are spread on tarp paper.
I am glass wrapped in glass.
I am shaken and stirred.

Something happened that was outside of
Us.
Broken and marred, the mirrors are
Thrown over us.
Shake the pillow, the feathers fall
To the ground.

You talk about ghosts.
You talk about ghosts and smoky mirrors,
Glasses dropped from the sky.
The trust is broken in two.
The windows fall out of buildings,
And onto the sand-
We aren’t home yet.

How I Know Each Poem.

I know each poem like it is my best friend.
The words sit on the tip of my tongue,

settle there like dust and destruction.
We live for destruction. We are a part of destruction.

The darkness is pure as I am to yourself.
The wholeness of the world is bright and unseeing,
the face is reflected in the glass.
I know each poem like it is my best friend.

I write each words on paper plates, napkins,
on desks at school.

They speak to me in a way that is transparent,
unmoving like shadows and miniature statues.
I know each poem but they do not know me.

THE FIELD OF QUIET.

the field of quiet is a withered rose
in a mesh of field (s) a mystery wrapped
in shroud when clouds shiver in an arc

and fade glistening like a glass (pass)
movement is/