Ten packets of ketchup
and a water?
Ten packets of ketchup
and a water.
I'm sorry, did you want a sandwich or
something?
I didn't ask for one.
I think you have to pay for something
before I can
give you packets of ketchup.
Fine,
how about a spoon.
A spoon?
Are those free
or do I have to buy ten packets of ketchup
before you can give me a spoon?
One of these?
One of those.
Are you just going to eat the ketchup?
I'm not sure yet. Is it still
early enough
for breakfast?
original works of parts
Somewhere Someone Got High but We Tripped (Prelude to Songs About Stupid Boys)
Aces and nails high and tight
amid the field of feel or flight
passing even forties in an odd form
putting cigarettes out and on between
us three wound loose and figuring
there has got to be something more
still undiscovered between the
rain
drops and
bricks
in the porch wall grow low and
bowed with the unwrung potential of
an above ground pool unswum and
begging for cannon balls
against retaining walls
in the corrugated aluminum hours
before civility sets hard into Sunday
morning and the moon fades
drained by reason's stupefying roots and
glory evades the striven touch
like a feather pawed by boxer's mitt
there is a hammer raised and
card faces laid
waiting for a fold that
anxious mouths roll in cheeks,
nowhere near caught cold
or sold dead to rights.
"If we light out now we'll gain
West VA by eight and
by noon be back with fifth's."
Giving up the gravel drive for highway
lines, downed windows, and dusk's wet air
in part for a want to be free, but
the wiser in us rides with because
the treasure in the taste of
gold bit is half found in
the trouble appended to
each pebble of
attendant hard earned grit.
amid the field of feel or flight
passing even forties in an odd form
putting cigarettes out and on between
us three wound loose and figuring
there has got to be something more
still undiscovered between the
rain
drops and
bricks
in the porch wall grow low and
bowed with the unwrung potential of
an above ground pool unswum and
begging for cannon balls
against retaining walls
in the corrugated aluminum hours
before civility sets hard into Sunday
morning and the moon fades
drained by reason's stupefying roots and
glory evades the striven touch
like a feather pawed by boxer's mitt
there is a hammer raised and
card faces laid
waiting for a fold that
anxious mouths roll in cheeks,
nowhere near caught cold
or sold dead to rights.
"If we light out now we'll gain
West VA by eight and
by noon be back with fifth's."
Giving up the gravel drive for highway
lines, downed windows, and dusk's wet air
in part for a want to be free, but
the wiser in us rides with because
the treasure in the taste of
gold bit is half found in
the trouble appended to
each pebble of
attendant hard earned grit.
Carousel Paint
6 shots in to a wasted Thursday and dialing the sun
in a parking lot testing gravity's wake and wash like
yarn tacked to an airfoil passing through field lines and
watching clouds gut check behind high tension feed lines
unable to determine if the ground is rising or the sky
is fallen and I realize the shine of scales dropped from
fish whales beached on water piles aren't and
cars are all around and empty in the afternoon
bath of unseasonable winter fires and I'm peeling
layers in the face of an energy warning on my wires
sweating cold from neck to toe and spun in the current of
name calling and my phone's ringer from someone's pocket and
who the hell keeps saying my name when I know
I am for yards of concrete and metal alone and turning
for the path shorted and shorting eyes lie and look
homeward and ahead, dead before me on the post of
a saw toothed fence begging for fat palm's slip
to unzip the pouch and spill the loam and mix it
with wet and pit readied road washed snow,
there stands crippled and tribbing to its own
legs fore and aft a horse clinging to preserve what
in blinks exists and bit lip I squint nearer and hold
finger tips to skin of news print mache clung in spit and
the buck tears free into air too knotted for January.
The watch on my wrist ticks and I try no to stare
too hard where the light bends and the fingers at canvas's back
leave their intestine gripping high displacement
multitude and oft forsaken tracks, and I can't
think of the last time I laid my head to feather stuffed bed
and simply slept.
in a parking lot testing gravity's wake and wash like
yarn tacked to an airfoil passing through field lines and
watching clouds gut check behind high tension feed lines
unable to determine if the ground is rising or the sky
is fallen and I realize the shine of scales dropped from
fish whales beached on water piles aren't and
cars are all around and empty in the afternoon
bath of unseasonable winter fires and I'm peeling
layers in the face of an energy warning on my wires
sweating cold from neck to toe and spun in the current of
name calling and my phone's ringer from someone's pocket and
who the hell keeps saying my name when I know
I am for yards of concrete and metal alone and turning
for the path shorted and shorting eyes lie and look
homeward and ahead, dead before me on the post of
a saw toothed fence begging for fat palm's slip
to unzip the pouch and spill the loam and mix it
with wet and pit readied road washed snow,
there stands crippled and tribbing to its own
legs fore and aft a horse clinging to preserve what
in blinks exists and bit lip I squint nearer and hold
finger tips to skin of news print mache clung in spit and
the buck tears free into air too knotted for January.
The watch on my wrist ticks and I try no to stare
too hard where the light bends and the fingers at canvas's back
leave their intestine gripping high displacement
multitude and oft forsaken tracks, and I can't
think of the last time I laid my head to feather stuffed bed
and simply slept.
Smoker 9
Nothing is marking time
better than the snap of flint
against the toothed wheel
beneath the chipped white polish
on her flush chewed thumbnail,
but the mechanics of her mouth
better than the snap of flint
against the toothed wheel
beneath the chipped white polish
on her flush chewed thumbnail,
but the mechanics of her mouth
weave something to be desired in
forgetting as more than a subject
warm enough for break room strangers
faces soft enough to know and
cold enough to hear
the second hand tick
between the pops of lips and little words and
little white lighters.
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