July 25, 2011 § 1 Comment
In The Womb We Dream of Carnations by Dan Lasher
Monday sits watching the spectacle of the weekend
plotting her revenge.
Wind is the paint brush of The Divine
against the clouds.
I drink the milky flesh of your thigh,
you move just as good across the page
as you do in my mind,
or across the hardwood floor of the earth.
Soft sundress on you on the floor,
and rain fell like buck shot.
Light danced between your legs
and I saw God and Heaven.
You are a flood in my arms,
if my eyes were mirrors
you would see what I mean.
I’ve walked in to find you fixed
and nodding on the couch.
Your eyes dreaming of saxophones
and out of state plates.
We rode on Coltrane,
mined our souls for lamp-oil
right up ‘til morning,
we kindled a fire of twigs,
I’ve seen you naked
on your bedroom floor.
Starving for air
like a fish,
fin stretched south to Heaven.
I’ve seen you dying—
Sick with time. When our day grows old,
and all our grand visions for the world
have gone to bed—
the face of them drooping down—
We sit around contemplating wine bottles.
Don’t you know that in the womb
we dream of carnations? The dead come back
to visit the earth as song birds.
I have witnessed this.
April 13, 2011 § 1 Comment
In a lust of licorice—
suddenly my sinus
cavity is open, and I can breathe,
but only suddenly.
Then I need more.
I don’t need water or sugar—
because the image that you
have painted inside my skull,
on the bone of it—
on the bone of it—can not
be removed by 80 proof whisky,
no for that I need, turpentine.
Roses by Dan Lasher
Dead dog sister melancholy wise up. Winter set in cool breeze through my hair against my skin. Your way is not enough and summer time charm has no time to care. Forgetting the scenes on your eye lids and laughing at the madness on the screen, shrill, calm, cool, disdain. The captain is green and the crew is mutiny. The night time fearless, while mourning lapping against a hallowed haul. Blood is drawn, and the young man dead in the bath, overdosed, his girl still out there somewhere.
Robins cry, sparrows sing, so close to land, I think, I can taste it, but I can’t see it. Nereid, sweet nymph, mother of helpful seas, help me.
We got in before sunrise, the mountain was burning and Jamie is dead.
Her tragic suicide has left her homeless, tears on her pillow, still it burns. Remembered only as a child, in her father’s eyes. In her own eyes, her young ones, a woman.
I wish you could come home, your bed is still made and your place at the table set, lavender lining the flower bed outside your window, roses on your bower, and lace on your bed sheets, this time I would tell you.