What the Muses Leave Behind

This moment is liquid, breached with spring peepers, It is sandalwood smoke lifting prayers to Lakshmi, Lifting standard bearers, it ups the ante. It is a cool breeze up a cervical column,   shivering  in Morse code, a genetic ladder to the roof, to Jupiter to a far black hole in one. Nebulas yawn a kaleidoscopic Neverland promenade, and gravity waves sing their arias of emptiness and full again, in nano-rhyme, in tiny grand statements. This moment is rich in grandchildren and great grandchildren, grows thin with constant attention, runs curious as coyote, moans in silken orgasm. This moment is ready as 4 o'clock. It swirls perdition within paradise, it bobs on Adriatic waves, swells with orphans adrift, threatens to wash us away. It uncurls sad lingering memory, clings to vital shadow kin. This moment is mitosis: gold to lead, sunflowers to chickadees, you to me. It has folded the day into 366 paper cranes, each head upturned. Thi...

Day 1 Mercury Pluto conjunction. You might wake up believing you are in possession of the ultimate solution to save the world but you can’t seem to get anyone to listen. No doubt  Obama got the same message. And Hillary And Kim Jong-un  And my mother It blows in fresh from dream dimension Where all is soft clay, blank canvas, new score, of course we can save the world.  First possession, grit and truth under our nails.  Stardust and cobwebs. Mercury has perched in the maple.  He’ll relay our allegiance To his far brother. I pledge allegiance to the woodlands,  to their cloud conjuring prowess,  their cleansing alchemy, their largesse.  Seems very ultimate, we’ll plant 50,000 trees. I pledge allegiance to permaculture, I’ll chop wood and carry water. Surely it’s the pace that presses us into problem.  Pluto is behind this reinvention. Make it no secret! I pledge allegiance to the shrinking icecaps....

Four AM pulls its brittle seam to snap open another wish bone night, Venus has mounted Jupiter, and they’re headed for the barn. It is the hour of cracked kettles, when dreams simmer, and my dark woman  uncurls like fiddlehead, the bud more painful than the blossom.  She cloaks me and we are spoons in a drawer, we are hidden agendas,  we hark back to somewhere between mauve intention and first light.  She hovers within me, pretends to speak for the chaos of shoes in a tumble around the bed. They might as well be our punctuation  for the day ahead. We crawl on our bellies as apostrophe bridges.  In tantric mudras, we bend like ampersand.  Our vagary is an ellipsis. It corduroys the moment into runway lights, and I have confounded  the undercarriage. We could pray for water, but today waking is a crash landing. Even so, I lift my tongue to croon in awkward aubade  with my shadow kin.  She’s pouring us...