One foot planted in the white vinyl cushion
of squeaky kitchen stool. The other pushing
the contact papered collapsible excuse
for a table against the wall. Spilling juice
and plated toast flip free and napkins flutter
to the floor like panties and you mutter
about having to be at work in ten minutes
and I would listen, but I've still got a fifth to finish,
vacation to kill, and air guitar to shred
and don't worry about your carpet while you're gone,
I'll piss in your closet instead.
original works of parts
It Didn't Work Out and it Wasn't Okay
Sunlight. So much God damned unbroken sunlight. A man stumbled free from an intensive care unit. And no one lifted a pinky. To bring him back. And he tore the gauze. The weeping fleshy brown gauze. From his fist. Sized bedsores. And he rolled the water thickened cloth up as if to return. To an age when folding towels. Was a difficult and delicate thing. And from the sun soaked median he flung his. Brown and filmy and stained tongues. Across power lines. Like a maladjusted child. In the throes of an unsupervised. Garish and dilating Halloween.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
Together We Lost the Magic, but Still Kicked Ass
You called my phone in the kitchen
and played the ring back
on loudspeaker, purse and phone aloft
in hands waving to the beat and I
MCed the lyrics to
a Public Enemy street banger,
passing the coolers and
pulling the tall boys from the open
refrigerator door, and
everyone knew that we
weren't dating anymore and
everyone knew that we
were still two of a kind
and content to be
laughing Buddhas in a sea of
tense and expectation.
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