Bitches Be Trippin (or, ‘staring at a blue tribal tapestry settles my unease long enough to type’)

I accept the day like a polar bear
floating on his back on the sky
in the cobalt dusk. I shudder
like a pearl colored petal,
veined with tenderness as the rooftop gutters
cascade yellow lava, freezing honeysuckle
into volcanic forever-black.
I drive, breathe, demand you:
an electric feeder circuit
swinging by the sides of the bed.
I build my timescape
as if my imagination were sifting
from a soft gray bag of cement.
I open the throttle at my heart;
I clack furious and tacky and loud
as an over-cleaned keyboard. I am the malachite
with smooth stripes of elegance
rippling the green (I think
I mean love). I am sweet and endangered
as the panda baby born near Chernobyl this morning.

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