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my secret is autumnseasons dance across the palms of my hands.fresh petrichor dripping from leaves, slowlyunfurling little waterlogged petals and lambswooland ocean air behind my eyeballs, sand sinkingand strawberry fields gently rustling with the tasteof smoothies and gentle swan calls in the lazy marina,little bits of cloud-dust falling onto your numbingcheeks, and choirs breaking out of church halls toserenade snowfall and poppy-red lips.but it is october that truly sinks into my pores.if autumn was a woman, i would tell her how clevershe was, choosing red and orange for her leavesand pouring fog like dust motes into sleepy townsif autumn was a man, i would tell him how beautiful he was,when dew freezes over jeweling grass, and whenpumpkins glow, beacon-like, next to billowing stringfor spiderwebs and the rustling of costume.it's sad that autumn is purgatory, between one rose-red to another(blushes in summer, poinsettias at winter)because the rattling of rain against windowpaneshas
rootslike drowned men who have lost theirclothes and faces, they lay suspendedfacing the sun and grinning withouteyes through the ripples of the water.those passing by wonder how they got here,these homeless men without fingers or toeslong spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:reaching to the east, to the south,to the homes they have forgotten.
Retraction of ChlorophyllLonger nights, and shorter days,Sinking towards the horizon,the sun stretches itself againstpulsating veins retractingfrom margins to petioleto stems unmasking green from orange to gold, to vermilion
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
fox firessome say the northern lights are dancing maidens or torcheslit by the honoured dead, or charged particlescolliding with atoms in what could be the mostbeautiful lovers' dispute known to man, sun, sea, flora andfauna. some tongues whisper that a magical fox is sweeping his greattail across the snow, spraying it up in to the sky.the fires of a fox could be myth, legend, anything, but even soif you're wandering around in december and see red foxes scamperingthrough sleet, wish that they'd sweep it up into the cosmosand craft you a perfect lovesong.when the winds are roaring outside and the rains are knocking at my windowi'll think of winters gone and winters to come like any half-sleepy soul atfourteen minutes past three,spewing stories from chapped lips in frosty breath, fidgeting uncomfortably inleather jackets, hair crusty with sky-fallen crystalsor pink-nosed children excitedly breathing out,fingers to their mouths, pretending they wereexhaling cigarettes and carcinog
Bisexual PrideYes I am biNo it does not matterEvery person is as good as the latterI love differentlyYet I think the sameMany may say it but I am not insaneIt's not a phaseor a lust for sexIt is me on the inside being myself
ThunderheadThunderhead"It's storming in Chicago," calls the mother to her son,who already knows—he can see the thunderhead,black and towering, gliding above the corn fields.It's miles away now, in Illinois, but his Hoosier bloodstirs with the approach of another Midwestern storm.While she reflexively checks the radiofor tornado warnings, he runs between the cornstalks,feeling the first teasing breezes on the outskirtsof the front. The field is empty otherwise; the cardinalshave already found shelter, as have the pasture deer.She calls to him, but knows he is safe for now,and remembers what it was like to run through corn fields,letting the leaves slap against tanned arms and legs,tasting the ozone tang of the distant lightningand hearing, just barely, the tolling thunder.He thinks of glaciers he's seen in schoolbooks:slow, inexorable (though he does not know that word),and wonders if a glacier announces its coming, too,the way the storm air weighs down an afternoon.He s
Exhale, AmaryllisMid-summer heatwave,I push through humid air,like dreams of swimming, graceful,through the streets. Chest aching, Iinhale heavy, tangible airthick with scent of summer's bounty.Honeysuckle vines tangle in my lungs, perfume my breath.My sighs exhale nectarpast my lips;words glint in sunlight.Berry brambles twist into my veins,thorns prick for blood from inside-out;honey-suckle oxidized breath,painting white blossoms red:My heart was a pure-white bloom once,but I inhaled arrows of golden sunlightand bled forth Amaryllis.
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web