Inspired by Smut

There are green animals.
Black fur can look
blue and gray or purple.
I am mainly pink
with red in places.
I am mostly drawn up
in halves.
There are dreams,
full paintings to go by.
There are tools,
loose skin, compasses
for inspiration
but I take none of these
with me. I talk to men
and smooth my hands
over my ass. I suggest
things. When people
express their hopes
for photos, the stopped
frame hiding inside a pose,
there are giggles in my nose,
in my light cream toes.
There are brown trumpets
holding notes somewhere.
In many ways, there are colors.

farming

i searched for fur
while i waited for my clothes
to dry.
thin gray fabric
and stretchy chords.
there are some positions
i sleep in
that make the room too hot.
after five significant shifts
he'll lay his hand on my back
then push me away.
isn't it funny to stumble around
in your parts of your apartment,
wearing pieces of fashion.
outdoors,
it looks like lamps are
on and teenagers are drunk
and i have no motivation
to watch them as they watch me
and figure how they'll
feel at dusk on friday
in a room full of personal frenzy,
personal skinning and canning.
i wait and wait for a ramp
to open up somewhere
and corral me.

sing

there is a cemetery across the street.
i want to visit it but i'm not sure
if i should. i wonder what people do
in the black all day. it would be a
stupid mistake to take a coffee over,
to puruse gravestones and rub up,
raking my thoughts along the soft ground.
a few people think they can change the
tone of death. in this world
only a few people change tone.
you're probably a tune after you die.
someone comes up with a melody in the shower
and forgets it by dinner.
but anyhow, everyone needs a song.

roof

i feel very sad

when i woke up
i made coffee
and put more laundry into the machine.
i talked to you
but i was already mad
and you didn't notice
even though i was being very open
while not saying much.
the apartment puckered.
the floor must love water.
all these waves in the parkay
feel like soft spots
in babies' brains
or the time i squished three tomatoes
with my hands as a joke.
i'm so tired of how dark our street gets
or how protective you are of
interesting things. i like watching
fights on the platform.
i'm really nervous
about how sad you are for me.

Sweedish Hippies in Granada

all day

i thought friends and family
were particular parts
of the love-hate center
in the brain. i hate you at the train station
but i must love you on the train
because the yellow light
makes my rinds soft,
my eye-rolls come undone.
you were for me and oh so sorry
as you rub the little tip of your nose
to my wilty, peckish check.
i am not so sorry, so foreign from
any feelings i've had today
and i engage them as i kiss you.
we are far away from the things we say
but somehow underneath them.
wouldn't it be easy to love-hate
all over?