the light in my kitchen.

 

 

 

The white moon, even thru the pollutant

is efflorescence the first time.

 

The second time it's inapplicably small

to nettle the suitor, snug in their drawer beds/

 

an argonaut colander poses with the float of ribbon and sevres

then looses it's mache handle like an airplane made of crumbs.

 

I smile a season of beesting like parturition

a toothless, tiny grebe wth my lobed toes.

 

As a little boy, I assigned genders to forks and spoons.

The fork was a married woman, making mistakes each

 

minute with the cake in her hair; bare striped like electric

wire.

Do tell the yarn spin to stop, stop

 

the plume mascara, vertically stacked brown on a black lash,

the tide is a near miss, aluminum jell as earrings of napalm

 

to burn, burn the little necks in their prune canticle worship.

The spoon was always a good and honest man.

 

The butter knife, so brave, made birthmarks on a wavy coat

but little else. The babys spoon was a good genie

 

though in her pornographic, low blouse aroused the old men, then portioned out

 

her green sex like a soup made of frogs

and cloth flavoring.

 

Dear Santa:

grant me another wish.