Marshmallow Farms

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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.

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Migration is for the Birds

If you look at what’s happening in Sweden…

Sweden!

Who would believe this?
Well…
That depends.

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.

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Fertile Earth

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

Other life

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.

Astoria Lamplight

The Angels have the Phone box.


This time, you raise the washcloth,
my blood soaks in. You breathe in.
Glamours renew under the light
of streetlamp flames.
Around us, solid objects move,
statues come to life, all flickering.
Freeze. Our hours … stop.

You, smiling, ease the blood
from above my right eye,
back into its torn skin
compartment, flickering.
If, in another time and room,
a flimsy filter were slotted,
red to green to blue, too blue,
we’d see again our eyes change
hue.

Well, that’s over…
you say.

And I say, This lamplight
is in my mind’s head. Astoria
fell into the sea….
It’s the salt of cleansing.
It has the feel of red
dead liquid escaping.
This blood, in the flame light,
slows like statues not moving.

This time, you, ringing out
the washcloth, smile flickering–
soak up spilled wine, a red,
from the hotel room
bedside table–and then, you
run a wet
index finger,
over my misbehaving right
eyebrow.

You say,
Blink, love, statues don’t move.
Your dream is ending.

We check out early, sun dawning,
and walk alive into Astoria
lamplight, dimming.

Ellipsis

Everything that is left out.
Implied. Inferred.

Like the Saddest Story Ever Written,
Often attributed to Ernest Hemingway.
“For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.”
An iceberg tip of six words.

Dive deep down and explore,
That submerged mountain of subtext.

Illuminate the ellipsis.

Or don’t.
You probably don’t want to know,
What’s really under there.

Laughter

Put your hands under my thigh,
Immigrant,

You from the Eastern Peoples,
Come with the Shepherdess you call Rachel and water your sheep,

Sooth your bitter cry, Esau
You who sold your birthright for a bowl of stew,

You are not about to die,

The West’s intention is blacker than your own deceit, come
Mind not the bully with the swastikas painted on his back,

Mind not his girlfriend with the crooked teeth, fear
Not the politician with his fat briefcase,

Eat now you handsome man!
Your whole body like a hairy garment!

The smell of you is like the smell of a field,
So eat now,

Before the Policeman in Arkansas shoots you down.