New Year's Fool

New Year's Fool

I am from yesterday,

but not.

My veil is the cloud of a dozen

dead species of moth,

my too-short skirts some dismal fabric

that only comes in black,

like bombazine.

My face is from nowhere,
but not.

My hands namaste,

my hair is a madwoman's coif,

a harlot's passport.

I stole my maryjanes from

a Harajuku girl

stoned in the Mission,

I have no eyes

but 

you feel me watching you.

Some say I'm a fool,

but 
I'm not.

 ~January 2017

 posted for     real toads

a very impromptu write for

Fireblossom Friday:Escape to The Past

Image: artist unknown, fair use.

Doves

Doves

The blackbirds increase
while the doves softly dwindle
year by year.
The sea is less brine
than acid.
A fatal heat sprouts seeds
that remember better
a long gone downy sun.
The Great Construct is shaking

faltering
transforming
as the plague ship
brings out its black sail.
Change becomes us, as change
becomes murder, an ever-
fluctuating constant in
an insoluble set.

In the soundless hour
before curry-clouded dawn,
the sky is reshaped
by an unfortunate light.

It seems foolish to write of love
of the past
of the breath that fell
from stars to earth

while we are bound
to a maniac god
who asks us to eat chaos
and shit sanity.

~February 2015

a repost for    real toads

Tuesday Platform

Child with Dove, 1901, by Pablo Picasso. Fair use via wikiart.org Photo: Blackbirds, © joyannjones 2014