can I give

to yellow on pink

glitter polish?

I look for poems

in strawberry nubbins

hard and green � ones the kids

planted with their dad,

in yellow stars dropping off

into green tomatoes, in parsley

bushing out into potato salads

are we masters of creation?

with a bit of powdered excrement

we michelangelo our meals

in a dream last night

my wooden plow fell apart

in the unyielding soil

~

more candles on my cake � feathered snips

across my brow, flips that made me

wide-eyed, I've let grow into wings

down over my cheeks to hide a chin

softer, rounder����� two of them

waters sing the years,

rising bands at the end of winter �

ships carry zoos / pair by pair /

hummingbird boys write the water,

gather confessions

lay me down in the midst of this frenzy

at least one giddy bird will tell the truth,

suggest cherry juice infusions

for our veins

����������� we should, shouldn't we?

drink carrot juice in the morning?

fill the frig with strong cheeses

and olives and pita bread?

all it takes is the SNAP! of little eggs

between my teeth - the burst

of brine orangeblackred

scooped with a spoon

from jars the size of self-indulgence

licked from the top of a dollop

of sticky rice or better yet,

from the tip of your pinky finger

in the morning fog

for now, why dontcha catch me

on the upstroke of your tongue

split the night - cold washcloths

on my head � on you, on us

both in our bed

the electric connection

binds the light, yet you see through

to expose the chameleon

softer, rounder����� two of us

stronger than before

~

If you kicked me to the quick

and counted all my lawn flamingos,

even the ones in their little plaid skirts,

you'd catch me out

nevermind my bear translations,

the ones on hind feet dancing

the mazurka � I slam down

that second foot, 'cause

there's the rub; I pretend

but I've no rhythm.

I'd just ask you but �fuck�

isn�t a word I can say

and those post-coital favors...

Why don�t I start in your garden,

thumb sunflower seeds into the dirt �

those black half moons will stick

around, a sign of my devotion

and then we�ll meet,

you laying napkins smoothly

in my lap, tipping skirts

within reach of the waves.

Do you want me to light a candle?

vanilla? or something spicier, say ginger?

Hell, I�m over flowers, give me neither jasmine

nor gardenias, no corsage

in a little greenhouse box

���������� give me

���� *I�m asking and greedy*

not flowers nor a bowery