THE BRIAR OF MY SPRING

I’m in the Hotdog room of the unforgiven, shriven from the Cuban cigars
and Flamingoes… slumming it with tikkis and gordian knots
in the pubes of starlight and the cool blintz 
of too many summer rains
hurling anvils at my
Snow Cone- 
Petunias...

I spawn in the invisible lake;  my clamoring schools of Wish-
Undertow Astonished...
Choosing Teflon bridges, and shorthand calligraphy
for Tarot cards,
and inauspicious 
charms. 

I Bolt when Winter
[ The Briar Of My Spring ]
Becomes the Wilderness
of my Unlucky
Parabolas.

I choose to be Kind
to my Miracles
As they claim me 
as their Fool.

And I sing in the Orchard 
of some Grim-
with my Bells sutured 
to a singing wound
and a Starling.

I cope with the dander of
Of my Cumulus Clouds-
Telling rain to Sing to the Tyranny 
of Downward Spirals!

Like putting a Babe to Bed;
But the Bed is a Hole-
And the Sleep
Is Awake.

And You're-

YOU.