When the wheels spin,
green eyes halfway closed,
I dream of climbing up ladders.
Mad hatters. Blue neon diners.
Repressions and all that come from holding it in…
Art comes, fully, of letting it out.
Messy, dangerous, and unforgettable.
The calm bulkhead of the hills, with evening sky smoldering behind, we live so far from there, our truest senses quashed by its grand encapsulation of steadiness.
I bet you didn’t know,
That marshmallows grow,
Big, white and round,
Right out of the ground.
Of quality top,
This organic crop,
So perfect this year,
Time for harvest is here.
Plain white is society’s
Most wanted variety,
But some specialist growers,
Produce some real showers.
Pink and yellow in heaps,
For marshmallow peeps.
If you look at what’s happening in Sweden…
Who would believe this?
Life is different now. Things are different.
This is what’s happening. In Sweden.
It’s called “Migration is for the Birds.” It’s a satirical tale of misrepresentation and the generation and circulation of false or misleading news stories. Through tweets. It was on a wall at an art gallery for a week. It’s about to be displayed at another art gallery.
Plant me a garden, love
As beautiful as it is useful
Cabbage next to my appendix
Peonies in my chest
A throat full of motherwort and roses
Take the bowl of my pelvis
Wide and empty as a mother
Make it a planter
Spilling ivy over my iliac crests
You will be the tender
This secret blooming at your hands
Braid the vines in my tangled hair
As you promise me your book
My soil is ready
My ribcage on hinges
Ready to open wide
And let your hands find earth
There is a house somewhere
In some other life
Porcelain sinks filled with herbs
Bougainvillea blooms hanging from the rafters
Patchouli in my hair
Jasmine petals fall from my breasts when i undress
Hands rough from twine
Softened again with oil
And kisses at the roots of my fingernails
You come in carrying baskets of bounty
From twin pear trees behind the clothesline
And old books to read to me
Windows face the moonlight
Old cherry desks
Where you memorialize the smell of my skin
And the twinkling, acoustic flame of my soul
Sheets upon sheets
Of both parchment and linen
Yours, mine, ours.