Bone Chimes

Bones and leaves
leaves and bones
knocking songs
of death, my death
hanging by
you, the bone

snatchers nibbling
my leaves
and bones and
bones and leaves
on trees every
where but

the blood moon,
as big as it
was, beats rarely
but falls, putting
red on
my bones.

To the leaves
and the bones
and the snatchers
above: Beware of
bone chimes
under red light.

Floating

Keep passing the open windows.
There are no windows at sea
only water, cold and rocky
rolling to wherever
I can’t go.

People hide in the clouds
dropping encouragement
but vanish
when the sun rules.
I rule the sea, willing

windows into existence.
But nothing comes, only
rain, dropping down
drifting me further
out to sea.

The Hub

My home has come, my home has gone
but has always been confined
to a space that I claimed mine,
the bed in whatever form.
I’ve had a sleigh bed, a futon
a garbage-picked mattress,
and at times just a blue sleeping bag.

Now, I lay in a plain old bed for two
that will follow me to another
place soon. Although the springs
are nearly shot and I roll, sometimes fall
to the floor in mid-dream, I’m loyal
to the hub for it listens to me
when I do whatever I must.

In a month or so, I’ll see new walls
from my bed and hope asbestos spores
won’t sprinkle death on me or my bed mate
like it did before to another, or so said
the batty old lady next door.
But if my lungs rot and spit,
the bed will carry.

Preface: I was told that I am 98% of what she is looking for

My eyes
brown, but clear
not weak cream
that you see--
which is a lie,
your stinking lie--
I am not 2% milk.

2 is a number,
not worth much—
just an excuse for
some phantom reason
placed in front
of milk,
my expensive milk
changed through your eyes.

But I know
the reason
for wanting only
diluted cow juice:
cream is too rich,
weighs down the heart,
changes everything,
tearing the pattern apart.

Percent labels the
value of milk,
but doesn’t change
the white, intrinsic trait.
So whether the whole
or 2 is there,
milk is milk.

Your eyes
green, but sharp
subtract two
from my strong, healthy
100% moo milk,
which is your removal,
not mine.

So let milk sit
curd, rot
and after it turns,
let my eyes
cracked, and crusted over
look at you—
maybe then you will realize
I am not 2% milk.

Soldier Sam Vs. Bagger #92

Perfect blue, perfect life.
I run, I write, I play
in-between I feed
on your best, behind
blue seats and wooden
benches, I listen.

Before I went,
I took a picture
of my feet
and hands, just in case
they were blown off, said

Solider Sam
with oil in the
blood and sand
crusted on his drum set.
Tap, tap, to his
delicious bus talk

I listen more
to same people,
different lines,
although I can’t
understand what
they’re saying, mostly

I read and catch
what I can, when
my head is up
above paper
making puzzles
to high-pitched laughter.

The dress blew
over her
head and the
big butt
danced fat, red
underwear, said

Bagger #92 with a
rice-field hat and
legs, straight, sweeping
along as she pushes
the cart out the door.
I laugh louder than

everyone, understanding
the goals of a perfect
life, two jobs, three
answers to balance, I
play louder too, music
bleeds over the store

into a concert hall, as
I wait on a wooden
bench to push their
food until I see
the blue later, shaking
my hand for

service of which
I write out into a frenzy of words.
Thank you, for nourishing.
Later, I might run
by your house.