y e l l o w

Yellow skies in my head rain petals across my memories.

They gather on the grass like snow at first and then seep

Into the deeper landscape until my dreams are golden.

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The sunflower lost the truth looking at the daisy.

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Golden dreams, milky sunshine, washed out amber,

Blend together until everything is the shade of yellow

That drives the running feet of artistry and insanity.

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Van Gogh painted in too few yellows, you know.

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An ultramarathon of yellow powder bursting underfoot,

Coating calves and knees and thighs in citrine crystals

That grow into a collection begging to be harvested.

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There are lemons rolling across the linoleum, leaking.

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Wood sorrel sprinkles the grass with its yellow petals,

Silk against the roughened green and the wood chips

Stuck out of the ground like earthen thorns, eager.

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Canaries flying over puddles of piss; yellow, yellow.

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Snuff a little bit of sunshine then and dip your fingers

Into the pale straw flame flickering above the wax,

Melting into shapes too erotic to be ironic now.

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Collect your gold and press 'go' before leaving.

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Leave some sunflowers in the fridge for the bumblebees

Who come home from work with pollen-coated thighs

And the desire to unwind with a spoonful of honey.

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Pour some beer down my throat, won't you?

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The yellow light says slow down but your car is screaming,

Careening for the striped warning sign, eyes wide,

Headlights leaking nostalgic orange across the asphalt.

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And yellow puddles under the harvest moon.