Of Belgian Lace

I want knowledge,
Endless paper as
A vintage scroll
Forward facing

And lace making
Tools ancestors
Used, to practice
Their language

Hanging in sepia
Windows behind
Stern expressions
Of chatelaines I’d

Like to inherent
How they knew
Bombs were on
The way to bricks

If Lady liberty is
Still forgiving as
Threads wound
Tightly around pins



Silence whittled into a stick
Ready to hang a bandana full
Of worldly expressions

Evocative discussions with
Rocks kicked, the horizon, or
Railroad car graphics

Blurred past, talked along to
The raindrop’s path, tapping
Itself on dusty pages

And Mine

If diamond rings cut
Glass as throats, I
Don’t want it anymore
Than growing male
Anatomies between my

Morality, sparkling as
A dilemma pressed
Against bosom, chest
Getting puffier minute
By the unimpressive lint

Picked pockets lined
All I’ve saved into
Through, like my soul
I can poke and plug in
Just enough guts, stories

Glories without a dime


Continuing, Of Being

I’ve noticed, maybe not as
Fast as it should’ve hit, it’s
Sitting, still as the keypad
After the blink, thinking of
Word counts shouting out
Loud, about how hard you
Have to tap, again into the
Beautiful light of oblivion
Living like the night skies
Beneath my starry types
Hiding, near anonymously
Sleeping, deep, keeping its
Sights set to sunrise, while
Running still, in that dream


I’ve done enough for
Flashed to the canyon
Made of purpose, left
Imagined as homeless
Day to light liveliness
From my back of life
Alone and shadowed
By my one candle lit
As if
It’s for a one and only

At Sunset

She wishes to be in pink and sky. Remembering when the jewelry party lady placed gaudy gold coins on her ears. As a sister’s friend was adorned in lilac crystal drips. It sticks years later. Fated with that fair and freckled hair color number cut from burger chain braids. Made out of the rustic fabric her mom picked and stitched. It matched. Hatched as that orange tyrannosaurs sans sibling wings.

Trying to be spring in fall. All made pastel like a baby doll playing in the dirt. Colored khaki, mucky, mustard on her chin. Grinning at bark, and the shades of squirrels. Girls, she’s got the curls, but bows get in the way. Granite and slate. Charcoal stains left like lead astray. Ashes from a flick of brick. She can red. Up like the French do. Hued in that sienna filter. Lifting a finger for another napkin to scratch on.

Beyond pine, drab, olive branched into. Reached through cerulean, sapphire nights. Right as azure turns to soft fushia blushes. Clutched like sixty four melted shades. Made by daydreams. She’s seen in bland yoga clothes from the continental divide. Offwhite, peagreen, mud. Stuck out against her powdered skies. Alive and laced beneath the tan.
The wind knows who I am.

To Souvenirs

The Chat Noir poster
tray and tin is displayed
against the desk next to
a pen inscribed by name.
The rest, the same placed
pastis/absinthe glass at
the sink, leftover French
bread ready for basil pesto
or cubed croutons on high
humidity wilted nights with
music playing somewhere.
There the Seine sings in blue