A buried appliance speaks

I crack you open like a ripe melon

and the paintings strip off your face

like dead leaves rustling down, down to the floor

Lost in the color

a boy from somewhere East of here

mother with the risqué hair
she smiles
he opens
they all remind

the verses like banners

are there if you care to find them

in the harried moments

when voices rise sharp

sometimes banners cover the ever-ready sin

of mid-day tongues

and the last year's daughter

glowers

a harbinger above another banner

a landmark reminder of praise

prayer

dreams are buried on your once-white skin

like a wrinkled old woman's 

collecting dirt in the roadmap of life's waste

in the curled paper dripping from the waves of clutter

stands a round Queen Genevieve

Queen Mama

"proud" purveyor of your contents

"overseer" of this mess

Ah.

I envision the crown on head

my hair not risqué

and bend again

to pick them up,

precious paintings

...even if there are thousands....

and fasten them with dreams and banners

because I cannot seem to find my garbage can.