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~
Bangle jangle
Strings of Mitra beads
Ankle-length sheath

Suzanna Hoffs
Painted lips
Shifting hips

Testing the poisons
Of her dance steps
Directly into the camera

~
Euthenics is the slender reed of hope or recovery. Pretty visitors adept at taking what should be morose and converting it into something resplendent.
~
A scribbled note passed
from one insider to the next.

The day she runs out of people
she'll conference with birds,
fall asleep a child
and wake up a woman,
broadcasting from home
on the night in question.

A hundred years from today,
she'll hold on to dead flowers
from the fairground encounter.

She will avoid the bridge,
circle instead around
the walls of Jericho.

She'll write upon the wall
like it was her heart.

~
~
Climbing the chemtrail

But subject to the ladder

Our one hour empire

Stark as a skyscraper

Built to fly then fall

Has bled into a church of

Abandoned factories

And polluted rivers

~
~
Shoreline sorrow
In the light of grey
Deep water, snowy day
As you tuck your children
Safely in bed, remember
Lake Chelan has a reputation of
Never yielding its dead

~
~
Ladies-in-waiting
reflecting on
a fragile state of mind

precarious creatures, these
hunters of coal
that outlines both
eyes and words

black paint for blue girls,
they pray in a circle
for their queen's wedding night
to be one of celebratory rapture

deep into the looking glass
they peer for a sign,
a soul, a stigma,
but cannot see
beyond their own glib faces

a universe ago they
caparisoned as pixies
in sunflower corsets,
twirling in a centrifugal forest

tonight in eclipse,
in their all-together,
they merely wear masks
of their former selves

the firelight dramatically shifts
in bacchanalia pratfall
--the oblong menace
of their smiles, fingers and navels
dancing to the age of Sideria

~
Into sky
Synthetic sky
Into cloudless recesses of
Artificial sun

Help me lift it up

Tubercular layers
And acetylene light
Below I sleep in a spiderweb
Where scavenger's reign

By design
Delicate
Intricate
Singularity
Worn for a vow
Worn as a shroud
Our night is falling

I come and stand
At every door
Next to manufactured girls

Hoping to lift you up

The ghosts they draw
On my back
Want no light to shine

And so I must
Leave it behind
For the man coming after me
~
she's thunderstorms.
she's asphodel meadows.

I fall outside of her
into the suburbs of askew,
where she hides behind
happy occident, where she
lives with the afterlife of a man,
but is in love with a scientist.

a jaded thing, she likes
to drop anvils on her
husband's head and blame
her fragile scaffolding,
she wears the wreckage
on her face, it's far easier
than admit her own fallacies.

before the children came along
she was able to pour some
of her own frustrations
into these knotty tussles.

now the midwives have left.
now misadventures in her
own backyard commence.

no hiding place down
the front of her,
the remaining secrets
come from underneath.

but if you trust her
and go along, she knows exactly
where to lay her hands.

~
letter by letter,
     some of great lust,
     some of espionage,
     and secret meetings.

part film,
part theatre,
part fever dream.

we were woven together somehow,
      like we were characters in a book
      being read out-loud somewhere.
The line in the sand

is at such incredible depth

but suddenly obtainable

through unspoken tragic demarcation

whatever the outcome

the 91st floor comes from underneath

they say today is happening

outside of me

and from a window

along the stress fracture

it's falling decidedly at your feet
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