these days.

These days, I wake just before dawn,
waxing with the sun in muted moments of pale luminosity,
and paint the east with the watercolors of morning.
Butter and cream melt across the milky heavens;
blushing roses subtly rouge the fair cheeks of daybreak—
and as the last stars are washed away
and the majestic, golden chandelier breaches the horizon,
thick streams of lustrous light glaze the sky with honey
and seep through my blinds, collecting like porridge
in syrupy pools of warmth on my bed,
heating my naked body.
These days, I whistle with the birds in their early morning reprise
and send my own mating song out into the wild.
I mow crop circles in the lawn signaling the aliens.
I paint my lips with red wine, and coat my lungs in tar.
I strum the dirty blues on the front porch,
and sit a spell with my kindred company in sturdy rocking chairs.
And when the skies darken and begin to brew
we back up the ’97 jeep Cherokee to the house
climb up the hood and onto the top of the car,
hoist ourselves onto the roof of the house
and welcome the storm
with sparklers and rockets.