RED MUSE POEMS  

Reading

Darkness, shrouding and books illuminated
fractured in the sumptuous light "connect, connect
         with us, your friends, your light."

Red Voice shot with arrows through empty eyes.
One old man thinks about a shaded river where 
he saw the flatboats ferrying thousands of the dead. 

It is 1965 and Sylvia Plath is still alive. And the housewife
poet is still alive. They die to hear the sharpness of their
own silent dreams running rampant against the porceline stove
with blue, abstract lines drawn along the fringe.

Quietly performing the words that define her; a room of 
definitions outlined by permissions and omissions.

Not a raging angel but a siren in brown dresses
Quietly telling her story in the outline of her tresses.
Definitions and permissions and omissions when the heart is outraged. 
At the entrance to its abysses. Where aromatic eyes meet heart-beats in an
                
                 aisle of sighs