CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.6
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8
Pergola on fire;
the reminiscent coalesces
with breathless robes of doubt.
Honeyed covenants perfuse,
lacking preemptive right.
Devout and impetuous,
demanding restless unquiet.
reams of abyss to exist.
You are dismissed.
a variation on peregrina (the rover)
CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.5
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8
like a cat
wandering along sill,
eyeing the moon
with wide yellows
and long jowls;
The Ninth Symphony
crawls into crashing sycophancy-
but only inside your head,
and in the flap flap
of domestic curtain ropes,
golden for you.
Snowy Brooklyn hood
the peninsula’s lusty line
with wind bustling through porches.
Lady Manhattan, stoically xenophobic,
lies still beneath her cloak.
Prospect Park sleeps, as good as dead
hides the sleeping life
in her pillowy bed-
the hipster’s last
I had a dream once,
this night in fact,
of sitting still
with pomegranate juice
rolling down my chin,
and of little bliss roller coasters
climbing up my brain.
CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.4
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8
Patience is a woman who walks far ahead,
knowing too well what drives us,
connives us into
We stew in her solace,
unable to forage meals without toll.
She shows us, six feet ahead,
how dawdlers get themselves
for their troubles.
Clinging to sycophantic trance,
we’ll be our own pallbearers before
wisdom conjures up
the next sculptor’s hand.
“…patience is a woman,”
we wait for her.
Forcing you onto me will not a child make.
Forgetting nothing about the foraging nights,
we scurry forward into the cluttered earthquake
of leftover bee bodies and diverted flights.
We choose the bushes without needing to hide.
The starkness of a chestnut glazed table
willing to stare back at me with a dare.
It challenges with a static potential,
that which only a table can muster.
I cannot be envious of that.
But I do envy that on it sits a brazil nut
contoured by shadow.
A brazil nut that
too may desire purpose.
If it could,
if it were not
just a legume.
Though it too has grown out of itself.
I being more than a nut,
or at the very least
greater than or equal to,
do percolate with such desire.
But lying here, wrapped in chenille and scarves
find the realization of my purpose
much further off than the arm’s length
fulfillment of our artless brazil nut’s fate.
If I do extend my non-hungry palm
I will eat the nut, for the sake of Brazil.
But instead, as accustomed to,
I will not force purpose into my palm.
Thus, I continue to sit.
Encloaked less by blanket
than by denial.
roams deserted alleys.
in every city, blanketed.
A seductive gravity
ravishes, standing alone on a street corner.
She does not draw crowds
though every passerby and wall
slide her a sidelong glance.
Tall and willowy statuesque,
a voluptuous silhouette from collar
breastbone to pelvic pleat.
Her clothes are a sin.
Cruel confronting barriers,
she’ll climb your wall
before you heed wanton chances
to re-navigate Adam’s fall.
This girl is a woman who knows
why she pants and stalks the street,
what perineum beholds,
how to slacken her stack
Though when she enters your mind,
you alone in your apartment,
she is naked
for your scalpel eyes only,
bared rags of pristine flesh.
Why so prevalent?
Her bloodstains bereave smooth flesh.
As you shrivel into a plate of wrinkles,
all you can do is bemoan
that she did not come sooner.
My trembling words pass so lightly
over your eardrums
to anoint imprisoned passions
and dally only where descent purrs with possibility.
Even with the stammer of uncertainty,
my rapture sings loudly,
dying to graze your feverish,
without misdemeanor of too much or too little
along the way.
With each pass of ribcage
and near swipe of eyelash across belly;
Perfecting flip of wrist and thrust of soul
heaves last year’s worries out of storage
and into applicable juice.
Our ginger approach innocently betrays
the incendiary fascination
we know better to be
for an affair.
Descent of the imprisoned
diffuses the beast asunder
to haunt with oscillating pride,
a relic of pawing ginger kisses
deliberate with forethought.
If a sigh can say it all,
imagine the lifetimes a falling body
might gesticulate, one vertebrae at a time,
through thickets of wanting.
A slight realization creeps in,
bereft of consummation
heavy on disappointment.
and loosens the noose of desire
that has been dragging me so sweetly
through the fantasy of you.
Our broken illusory drags my strong feet
through the mud of still unknowing
where you might have led me
had pedigrees and inclinations
There’s no failing here,
we can only have or have not.
Photograph by Deana Mitchell