1-6 An Exercise In Futility

As a Baritone,
I hold the note,
in the palm,
of my mouth,
steady, strong, sure,
built,
with the Bass,
above the Bass,
with the Bass,
one solid note,
held, filling the
forming cracks,
with confidence,
a foundation of silence,
for the sparrow,
nesting in the
palm of my mouth,
fluttering, heart beat racing,
sings wingless flight,
as a Tenor,
held in
wingless flight,
fluttering, tries,
finds, not with the Bass,
above the Bass,
notes flowing freely,
as the Bass, the Baritone,
the Tenor, unresolved,
held, faltering,
in the palm of my mouth,
born this way,
the Baritone as a Bass,
as a Tenor, sparrow.

1-5 Silent Pantomime

ballerina,

on the floor,
bending, bowing,
lifting arms,
breasts revealing,
chest undoing,

no sound,
no sound,

a silent pantomime
pushing through,
caught between
the bars of nightlife
streaming blind,
through the window,
reaching, pushing,
caressing, bending,
bowing, caught,
within closed palms,
pigtails, red hair,
lip-lined laughter,
hollowing, the out,
the out, who is she?
ballerina, without,

a sound, no sound,
 yet,

she sings,
grace stretching,
form between the bars,
liquid eyes wider,
than her heart,
she sings,

ballerina.

1-4 I Almost Forgot My Poop Bag

On Saturday,

the barbies ran through Forest Park,

prancing, preening, posturing,
conversations shambling, baby-showering,
prims and portable princelings yowling,
on leashes, off leashes, fur branding,
breakfast burritos matching,
bobby-sock, air-shoes, beanie wicking
black glove, ball cap, watch band, wire dangling,
heart connecting to a pulse counting,
calorie twirling, pony tail, crimping,
perky, kale, raspberry vinaigrette, eating,
never had meat on my ass,
check that out,
chicken ankling,
twenty-third avenue croissant baking,
paper-bag boulangerie boasting,
three point two miles to cross fit my baby making,
insta-posting,

barbies converged on Forest Park,

on Saturday.

1-3 In The Kitchen Of The Gods

one got lost along the way it seems,

Death said rather moodily over
his never steaming cup of hot cocoa,
looking at me picking my feathers clean,
with remnants from his lover's teeth,

did you have to eat him?

I could tell he wanted a cigarette,
the way his body not so lightly relaxed,
onto the edge of the kitchen counter,
while his eyes glowered and simmered,
judging me but  encouraging me,

I suppose not,

I said flexing my wings,
ringing the bells that shook with midnight hour,

but I got curious,

flashing him an adorable smile, picking up my mug,
swirling the contents into spirals and dreams,

I got curious. And there was this one other thing...

my voice trailed off, straining to hear the sounds of Gloria
coming from the mug, Death leaned in close, also listening,

they never seem to hit the high g, do they?
he whispered maliciously,

engulfing us in the growing chasm of his laughter,
the light wavered, the kitchen shifted slightly,
and I felt like I was falling, in a forever-beneath-me sense,
I had felt it before, once,
an all too familiar rush,
of his world rising up,

he smelled like you, sweetie,

I hummed, kissing him on the cheek,
tasting the burnt ash of his beard,
lingering on the after of his breath,

and you know I can't resist...

Death put his arms around my waist,

resist?

he said smiling with the slightest of awkward grins,
causing the bells to clang in my head,

while the violin started to play furiously
falling from his lips,

why would you want to?

1-2 Awake In The House of September

quiet the whispers in the hallway,
for the man upstairs is sleeping,
quiet the growling shadow at my side,
for we invited him in and we need him,
hush, my prowling quick-to-anger heart,
hush, can't you feel it, the grass returns,
listen to it humming, the finches and sparrows sing,
the mask I made is slipping further,
uncertainty flickering from my hands,
but listen, listen to him, waking the house of September,
listen, how quiet and still the morning has become,
hush, listen...

1-1 Patience- New Year, New Word

I added,
pecans,
to my oatmeal,
this morning,
so you should know,
while I am creating
this, the taste, of pecans,
is dusting in my mouth,
left-over from the Christmas cookies,
I never baked, because I got afraid,
this if I had any more sugar in me,
they might haul me away, and
exile me to a box, padded with carpets,
where all day long, I would be reminded
that I was going crazy wondering if the finches
were singing in c or f# minor,
worrying if I judge them too much,
they'll stop coming to the bird feeder,
and then, where would I be but a lonely,
grizzled man wanting to defrost bacon in the microwave,
but forced instead to stare, day in and day out at the lines
on a computer, hoping one of the combinations, gets him into the glass ballroom
of a locker-room, where he might get a chance to whip some towel boys into the pink perfection
of his fantasy that he is constantly dreaming
about while eating the pecan that
have now thoroughly
soaked caramel into
his oatmeal,
today.

12-31 The Prince Took The Shoe Back

midnight came,
to the champagne ball,
the prince,
(may he be exalted above us all),
toured in the finery,
of a white and black entourage,
gold embroidered thread,
blaring a royal purple wilting corsage,
the sounds of his waltz,
conceived on a ill-fated
midsummer's night,
faded from his lips,
which curled at my voluptuous sight,
instantly our fire rekindled,
the flame we had once about to burst,
his eyes became a golden flashing,
slathering, wolf-like thirst,
smiling discretely, ignoring the gasping birds of his guests,
I lifted my dress, to show him the shoes,
but as I am a lady, not the rest,
he put down his glass,
and got down on one knee,
leaning in close, to whisper,
sweetie...
giggling and blushing, I held out my hand,
before I noticed he'd taken the shoe,
at the same time motioning to strike up the band,
that sickening, sappy, song of a waltz,
dripped from his smile, and fell flat with a slap,
from half-cocked bow,
how was this lady expected to dance with him now?
he shrugged his shoulders, walking away in a trance,
mumbling to himself, something about midnight,
something about romance, some other girl,
some other chance, the prince,
(may he be exalted above us all)
pumpkined my midnight, when the clock struck,
the fairy godmother,
at the champagne ball.