hybrid form


I think I watched your scales fall off, smelling the frayed glue as they came apart between gravities.

First, one by one.

Then by twos.

Then fives, soon a kept journal documenting words heard and patterns in between numbers.

A scale pressed between each page. Lackluster loose float between corners and centers, moving against rolling waves of lined paper.

One day the binding will tear and there will be a flood.

A bird talks in chirps tweets squawks trills tremors
rotting log red berries stomach worms
casualties of war clouded imprints
pecking order

and fall falling ripped out in turn feathers to down to bare to what lies underneath skin but before their range—

“I’m quite sure there’s something above my bed. It lingers in the shadows and reaches out to me when I’m dressed in pajamas and put down my night book. He’s blind and mute and maybe deaf, but that’s okay.”

“That’s okay?”

“I think he’s just as scared of me as I am of him.”

weighted hunger sits in throat
reaching through a gasp for
repetition a
tin roof’s overhang rain
water waltz in
throat seats
cushioned padding the
hunger reaching
held back

If you are careful, all their scales will fall off.


Meditations in Yellow

What do we do when the sky melts?

I see flowers there.

Growing from abandoned spines, they burst out of dried stomping grounds, a thistle among weeds who plays hide and seek with a chrysanthemum star.

And clouds scatter – light shatters.

“Caution,” the winds scream, “take care.”

“Don’t let me be alone,” the thistle replies, and the winds carry it away.

In the corner of your backyard, we turned over a rotting wagon, prodding it with holes for collected things. Ear wax and amber and torn apart dead leaves rescued from winter’s grounds. One day we’ll make a hole big enough for a lion and his mane, for fossilized honeycomb, maybe even a giraffe’s spots.

But for now, we’ll collect candlewicks and stick them in our holes. Lightning will spark an evolution. We have ways of catching fire in the summer’s dampest nights.

I find a thistle on the backside of a stuffed donkey and think to myself, what a strange tale. The donkey murmurs his agreement in bashful accordion rifts. He blushes vividly. Blinds me.

Soon, the accordions rise sonorous above and cut the world in two.

A bee and a candlemaker stare at each other between layers. The bee wonders why she cannot fly and the candlemaker despairs earning her stripes.

This is hurricane weather, I think.