The Oracle walks up candlelit stairs
Sits cross-legged at my feet
Washes them with a crystal ball cleaning cloth
Could your third eye not tell you what I will
The past is for historians
I do not have fossils under my fingernails
The present is for the lovers
I do not fall I’m too grateful for the graceful
The future is for you
What does a candle need to see but its own flame
Oracle! Oh, Oracle!
Yes it is hard to examine oneself
When one is burning alive.

Innocent Flowers

My voice surprised me when it tumbled out
Of the back of my closet with the vinyl’s
They have never felt a needle,
So very different from me,
Bleeding to learn how to stop bleeding
Holding my breath in order to catch it
Nothing dies in the garden where I bury myself
Flowers bloom and blossom from my tomb
I could be those flowers wrapped in damp tissue
I could be flowers of apology for who I used to be

The Statue Inside Me

All the spinnings of clay into nebulas that can only happen between snapping synaptic gapings
The thought that hasn’t been thought yet always shines like my memory of your bite
But requires magenta to be spilled, Spaniards don’t even drink wine to know this
Filling glasses with maroon dyed glycerin to spray into light over clubs for ironic gentlemen
I choose to stay home with my cigarettes
To peel my brain off of a world filled with dragons and fairies to spin out into a nebula
I will become a smoking pot, overflowing and growing over
With what is between what could be and what is

Old Fashion

Ice in my veins makes me stay better in a cocktail
Is the reason I drink so many, stumbling through the streets
Of who-knows-what city scrawling on a bar napkin
If it is about the journey, then why have a destination at all?
Best not to synchronize swim in clouded water
Especially with wings picked of their quills
Nobody can even see my body melting up
From the bottom, I almost look human now