Love Like Gypsies

I. Mercury

The ram. Olive oil and avocado. Triple moisture for swallowing Medusa’s head. Snake spit and long tongue kisses and stoned. A clockwork owl Poseidon. Pan and his flute; negro didn’t even buy it himself. Forgot that my ears were part jaguar. Your father and his fire hose, foreboding and mean, could not allow the four seasons to cleanse the blood of his fathers. Something tells me I’ve got a second chance a relic of old that must be returned to the land in which blood was shed. I don’t have enough time to reverse the earth’s rotation. I’ve got shit to do and dreams to dream nightmares to combat in attempts to keep me from needing any more resuscitations from men in blue with skeleton hands and sockets big morose battered and lonely. I kiss and tell. [Wings]

II. Tempest

She looks like something you might fancy. She looks like an anachronism, otherworldly maybe

but a bit like a boy. I guessed dali. lots of stuff I haven’t guessed. You say shaman I say wait. You

say wait and I ask why. Turns out I know why she could not tell my mother the truth. I visited and

then the rain came.  [Torture]

III. Cormorant

Resting my laurels in the hands of dead and dying women; thrust into the arms of my unfeeling ancestors those conflicted, consumed, and corrupted with drink. Don’t you ever open the lids on my pots, on my stove,  my yellow mustard refrigerator, magnets of the only fruit to pass these lips until the tender hands of the watcher. Birds of prey are vulnerable to the most dangerous of all the world’s creatures. Man. [Woman]

IV. Figs

Mountain. Queen of the Mississippi, Tennessee. The mouth open mouth to the gullet of the Mississippi. Alabama, ole Dixie barracuda walleye sit here and pick up the pieces because the explosion was terribly inconvenient, one e short of paradise I always said. With yellow hyacinths and purple stalks of wheat fuzzed with red, orange. Plaids are in this season. I sat stroking the dead man’s hand and tried to pull from the universe something of his memory. A blacksmith with hands like a butcher; chips, reptiles, cheese, hurricanes and hams in winter. Liz does not need me anymore.  [Dice]

V. Elk

I don’t want your money I just long to be the last woman you fuck. He asks me nothing but wants to know all about my mother and daughter, never about the women who need to be discussed whose secrets must be discovered because there are some. Her daughter’s eyes the same kind of blue. The women in Dallas in the nineteen eighteens swooned over cowboys who could not read but made love like gypsies. This is all the same thing cycling over again. I dream about babies with tactical skills and a soft side; poets and archers with blood everywhere. I might have to die for it but it is a sacrifice I’m willing to make because I’m going to die anyway. I remember at three the calls of sad sorrow or bitter twists of a knife and I realize I don’t know shit. Mostly around here I just answer the phone and file.  [Bread]

Be first to comment