Hey..
What’s in that bag you drag?
I have a box of my own.
It’s well known to me.
So, what do you think is fair?
Rock, paper, scissors,
the loser opens first?
I don’t mind.
I’m tired of its weight,
and long to let the moths loose.
Or, you know,
we could just practice being born.
I done something
It doesn’t look much like you see in the movies. Well, depending on how long you leave it sit, it changes colour and gets a little syrupy. Marge put in for two weeks’ vacation, so no one has thought to call here yet. Once I had cleaned up a bit, I took a few days off too. Just camping, bumming around, sipping Johnnie Walker. Not much fun, though, when you’ve got something in the back of your mind. So I slacked off on the drink last night and decided to drive home today. Jesus, it smells. So many flies. Shouldn’t have left her on the counter.
Shell game
The savor of a morning’s dream,
exhaled in a muscled yawn.
And the thing resurfaces,
still unresolved.
And I am back to juggling, left-handed,
with only one guess
at a shell game’s prize.
“Can’t sleep now!”, the Chairman says.
“Find this rock tonight. We’ll decide
who stays”.
The way we are
If I tried to dream you
out of whole cloth,
what a disservice it would be.
We speak in print,
with proper letters and cadence.
There’s ample time
to consider a question or a statement,
or to bid a gentle goodnight.
I apply and project my idea of you,
as a sculptor might,
from raw clay and memory.
You have never posed, I think,
and you are real and proud.
Noble qualities you exhibit,
and because I am not noble,
I rationalize and dismiss.
And, unworthy, I mash the clay,
and start again.
Smug as a bug
They haven’t turned up the heat yet,
or held my feet to the fire.
So, still I stay smugly detached
from nervous bristlings meant to alarm.
And time I have to consider the Shaman
who walks,
enraptured with faith,
on beds of glowing coals.
A grave matter
When I’ve left this locking body,
sack me in a shawl.
Don’t let this cat out of the bag.
Roll me over in the clover,
sling me slowly into the underground.
Take up your brought shovels
and fill me in. Tamp me down,
so the earth will plant a kiss,
and welcome the worms.
I will be watching.
Happy days are here again
Suppose
you could take me with you.
Into this, your shiny time
of smiling at the sun,
of feeling the quickening
of love’s stirrings.
Of planning without the thought of ending.
Of being adored.
Tag along, I would,
incognito.
Even, I would pay
with what I have left.
Prism
It’s curious.
In this incestuous head,
bone is squeezing too tightly.
Turned one way, what’s real is swirled.
Degrees aft or starboard,
things will gel,
but sound is suddenly smothered.
Venous rivers are imagined,
and the heart’s voice is a drum.
The ghost may be giving up.
fetish
The watching of bobby socks
on feet with a popcorn smell.
A shy face
with downcast eyes and freckles.
If I can coax her smile,
chiclet teeth.
Fine and white,
but tilted funny.
You drive me crazy.
I videoed you at the party.
Fifteen minutes.
Just your feet,
crossing and uncrossing.
No one knew.
I keep it secret.
Unclean
I dreamt of dirt.
Of its sloughing off under the tap.
But oh, the horror of the pores
that extruded anew
a brackish paste,
a troubling stew.
And here I thought
my virtue bought,
until this taste
the nightmare wrought.
And a stern bellowing voice said
~WASH YOUR HAND~
Aremyfeetofftheground 