sweet-gum

I watch the slopes, each stone-slate roof grayed with heavy blotted rain. The fantastically poor cathedrals and fountains of bare-bright wishes, coppery reflections and busted grapes. Eternal tire gardens and the endless stream of flags on the bridge.

This movement, deeply penetrating as the bombs start to fall, camouflaged whores on patrol, the dirty knees and embracing foam, lusterless glimmers on the gummy sidewalk, I like to watch the buildings topple, the rainbow-ed umbrella's shrouding thoughtful rubble and sincere ruin of an irradiated glassy goblet of wasteland breathing, crushed glass and shards of bitter nectar; completely precious and untroubled joys spark timber colored fields and teeth gnashing apple orchards, open legged cemeteries and squadrons of playful fireflies, they look like tiny flying flashlights on the blink, the last remnants of a dying battery, microscopic beserk appliances in a funnel cloud of yellowed festive lights.

My brittle pale arms spread out like a cross, this infected demons delight, a cleansing bloodstain on my chest, the torn fabric and grim imprint of my detached soul, the lifeless and unwanted ghosts, kissed twice. I run my mangled hand over the rafters, I chew each petal and scribble dashes of mournful words on smooth scraps of papery birch.

I feel like rusty metal buckets of soaking leaves under the sweet-gum trees, a tired author bedraggled and enduring loneliness as the clouds bludgeon and bruise badly this sickly skyline masterpiece of torment and waiting.

Sour yellow lemons and peppermint tea, Sunday kittens and colorless, motherless, fatherless blots of disastrous pumice and acorns scattered like aging kidney stones, tangles of English ivy and red-orange moss ablaze.

Pine straw and flaps of skinned emerald metallic bark, wet cedar shavings and rotten stables blest with filtered light, gluttonous puddles littered with the stolen pennies from heaven, fat tank battalions of army turtles and paint horses frozen in still-life poses, discarded portraits and timeless illusions, subtle farm animals and passive pillows of storied shoreline rock.

The agonized creak of a forgotten porch swing sounds like an old boat tied to a southern dock, a venetian carousel and more vibrant horses running like thunder, the leaden gallop in loud terrible gushes, the feverish rush and sway of unfolding arms, the thinly etched black lines on the stormy horizon, the slender sleek sweet curl of you and with my watchful wild eyes I stare at the melancholy telephone wires.