Savasana

I unfasten my bones

to clarinet chords. 

Stars are falling into my fingertips.

I am the sun.

I smell greens and blues,

I am yellow and red.

Shiva is dancing.

I close my eyes.

Pianos. Clarinets.

Beneath the bones is gold mist

Collecting dust, collecting stories.

There is ocean blue.

I am Dali’s clocks.

Clarinet moans, and I am strength.

This death is spring.

Stars are in my eyes and the sun has set

in my chest.

I’m wrapped in dandelions.

I am dreams.

My chest is rising in the east,

humming to Shiva’s alter

Wake up, slowly.

Sit up, Savasana.

I am pianos, and I am clarinets.

Inhale. Exhale.

Seafaring

architecture seas,
sinister sapphire hair breaking against
a ship in hunger.
the Italian is surgically cast to his Rome,
cast to depths.
the winter captain scorned. missing.
on a sawtoothed shoreline path to peril,
he lies in Italy’s off-world,
the morgue of Nereus.

Elitist English Majors

Entertainment bandits
with their farmhouse esquire strut,
tough youthful lip,
and iambic harpoon,
impair reality.

With rhythmic railing,
visceral eels flick buildings,
drift ice and frazzle the equator.
A safe, habitual dive,
accident free.
A hearty frost etching. Theatrical orgasm
about an ethereal unsteady sailor.
Often narcissistically open interest by preaching,
“Listen. My genius is whispering. Learn.”

Others aggravate the heavens, 
stirring after an avalanche,
but never after the orthodontist.
They are an insane entity, 
like narwhals in mink coats.

Vent the mossy minds and eradicate the vices
of elitist English majors.