c 2007, 36 pages.
"When it does, why does its shadow/ move the hollybushes beside the house?"
(A mystery of repetition.)
8.5x5.5, staple-bound.
cover art by Conan Kelly.

Azalea

An azalea brushes chimneys, hovers above the common.
I don't listen to the azalea or its baubles.
White, footshaped, the azalea, denominated,
easily choreographed. Some of my azaleas are good, some not.
The azalea should be ripped
by magnets. I sweat in the body of an azalea.
The azalea's in the backyard praying for paint, pregnancy.
Check it, I'm the sexiest azalea in here.
To make rent, I borrow azaleas & sell VCR's
in a blue smock under a blue siren.
My azalea, my good luck, get me nowhere
in the supermarket. The azalea, bloated with sunflower
seeds, can't be televised.
I set fire to silk pajamas, azaleas with maps.
All around are the azaleas of Learjets,
the azaleas of hairspray, cigar azaleas.
The most basic azalea's to dissent.
I stick a neck in my azalea
for light. I azalea to witness the peacock, its feathers.
In the Victorian nextdoor,
a madonna, magpies circling the floor, deep with empty jars.







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