Of Fireworks and Darkness

Where comets come from. Yes. You are brighter than stars
and have a magnificent tail. But we need to know where you dwell.
You should take someone there. Until then, you’re just an omen.
Of something. Beautiful. And terrible. All by your lonesome.
You’re a volatile couple. Ashley. Americanized Cinderella.
Do I know you hate that. Do we love you for it. Honey.
I need you. More than I ever let you know.
This has all been about you.
Give some back to us.
You’re American.
You’re British.
You’re Scottish.
And gypsy.
And arrogant.
You are America.
You are the cloth high up on the mast that catches the new wind first.
Before the sails that move the ship.

You are your own direction. Respect.
Head nod. Eye contact. Embrace. Stoic faced.
As streams rain down and embers soar sparks fly
celebrate no more than more light in the sky
sulfur in the air
no care
dressed eighteen hundreds
beaming red bursts with dazzling white gold finish

smiling in the sporadic face
of fireworks and darkness.

Not too sweet

A lemon growing in the woman I love. The sweetest lemon there ever was. Still isn’t too sweet. But growing two feet. And butterfly wings. When the woman I love finally settles in at night. You water that lemontree just right, and she’ll expand your definition of love. And. Grow you lemons. Well, grape turned pomegranate turned lime then lemon and so on. Plus two arms to sew on. Isn’t that impressive? This lemon can put on its own buttons. And zipper up vertebrae galore. Seam ripper the skin between fingers. And longarm till short arms grow sore. 
To be clear I have never liked lemons before. 

Now, I admit, I just hadn’t met the right lemon yet.