Good enough to be
a mouthpiece and
too good to sweep floor mats
dirtied by her boots
paid for with my dues and
apparently too good
to learn names.
I'll answer to snapped fingers
and "aye boo boos"
and batted plastic eyelashes, but you should know
I'm whistling while I work
because I'm thinking of a claw hammer
kissing your foundationed cheek bone
and popping the bridge of your nose
free of your face
like a pinched pen spring.
original works of parts
Band Aid
Cleaning the floor with a dust mop
on a cool three A.M. Wednesday
made cooler by the swift and blow
of the shine faced vacuum packaged meat
locker air to the left and right of shoulders
and lips are smacking hungry for a lunch break
creeping up by the pull of long florescent lights
along the rope of hand over hand tasks
and a shred of paper clings to the line
of black netting between linoleum and scuffed tiles
and bending knees stiff with half a days distance
to their credit and approaching overdraft
to pluck it loose between thumb and fore finger
worn smooth by the low grit of various
handles teethed by dozens of hands before
the realization dawns that the supple grip
of stickiness is not glue
and the dimpled face is no kind of tape
backing and the grains of plaque
on a mouth soda fed and little else along the way
can taste the buttery tart highs
and kettle drum lows of
split and licked skin
balancing like droplets of oil
on the vinegary meniscus
squeezing milky from the crown
of a stomach.
Flick it away. It goes nowhere.
on a cool three A.M. Wednesday
made cooler by the swift and blow
of the shine faced vacuum packaged meat
locker air to the left and right of shoulders
and lips are smacking hungry for a lunch break
creeping up by the pull of long florescent lights
along the rope of hand over hand tasks
and a shred of paper clings to the line
of black netting between linoleum and scuffed tiles
and bending knees stiff with half a days distance
to their credit and approaching overdraft
to pluck it loose between thumb and fore finger
worn smooth by the low grit of various
handles teethed by dozens of hands before
the realization dawns that the supple grip
of stickiness is not glue
and the dimpled face is no kind of tape
backing and the grains of plaque
on a mouth soda fed and little else along the way
can taste the buttery tart highs
and kettle drum lows of
split and licked skin
balancing like droplets of oil
on the vinegary meniscus
squeezing milky from the crown
of a stomach.
Flick it away. It goes nowhere.
Ocean's Swim
The floor to the sea
is nothing like a table.
I'm reminded, looking star side,
how darkness builds like
voices in a stadium,
capillary, rushing,
demanding, wall eyed blind, and
in rising to the edges of sight
to collect above the eyes in a black lens
trending by single droplets toward downpour
where the distance of vision fades
to the material and tooth certain face and the threat of
night's moon deaf pressures scatter
hare like before greater and darker
shapes drawing near.
There are days I love
to swim
and settle to that plain.
And days I still fear
what little
light's absence
allows me
to see.
is nothing like a table.
I'm reminded, looking star side,
how darkness builds like
voices in a stadium,
capillary, rushing,
demanding, wall eyed blind, and
in rising to the edges of sight
to collect above the eyes in a black lens
trending by single droplets toward downpour
where the distance of vision fades
to the material and tooth certain face and the threat of
night's moon deaf pressures scatter
hare like before greater and darker
shapes drawing near.
There are days I love
to swim
and settle to that plain.
And days I still fear
what little
light's absence
allows me
to see.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)