Designer Bags

You've been up too late
too late at the gates
of dreams and dream states
and your alarm clock is started
to sing wake up songs.

The stars, they roll back
and the sun down the track,
clouds totter while stacked
and leap frog daylight
while you're yawning along.

Elements of the sidewalk,
red brick and the kid's chalk,
cement and pale weed stalks,
they fit altogether like
flamingos and gnomes on a lawn

and the coffee can't help
morning rays leaving welts
and you tighten your belt
while the hands on your watch
spin with their direction all gone.

The shirt collar on this one,
the shoe laces as she runs,
the grip of the cup of the coffee that's done,
words printed on bus stops,
the lettering on the sign of the shuffling bum,

they all start to make sense
like planks screwed to a fence
around trees of ideas and ornate cement,
form chasing function,
like a bow tailed kite, picnicers drawn.

Work slips by slow and night
comes on fast,
brain bruises of day are a thing of the past.
Get home and get to the real work at hand,
graphics and wordsmith and sleepless pursuits
of functioning and simply fitted forms before sunrise,
go back to work with designer's bags
under your eyes.

Line Out to Center Field

Of all the people I've blown
lines with, I can honestly say
you are easily the loudest,
but, as much as I can see
our worlds coalescing in flow diagrams
with boxes and triangles and circles and
color coded keys
while our lives diverged,
it is a thing I can overlook
for the beauty of its yarn ball complex simplicity
because a cat with nothing to play with
is a throw pillow
that shits
and if I have to grit my teeth a little some nights
for the pleasure of being a little more than I am,
I will call you a friend
and run up our score on a sacrifice line drive.

Super Smash Brothers Melee 2

Remember when wave dashing came on the scene and
everyone spent weeks trying to master
depressing
buttons with feather touch
to become combatants swift as shadow and
potent as laser lights,
and I laughed
because
as in life
you can be faster than the flames of hell
taken to gasoline draws and
flashier than Jesus at a rave
with angels for glowsticks,
but you still have to enter my hit box
to touch me and
I can wait.

Runner, Do Your Thing

The shorter your shorts are
the faster it looks like you're going,
until they get so short
I can see the crescents of your ass
peeking out like complimentary glazed biscuits
in a white racing striped powder blue bread basket
on a table at a restaurant
I know I could never afford to eat at,
but that I sometimes walk by and pretend not to see.

Then it doesn't matter how hard you work them legs,
cause you're moving in slow motion to my eyes.

Meat Wad

The sun's goin' down and it's time to make some dinner.
What you gonna have that's bound to be a winner?
Rustle up the pan, try to see what's still kicking,
can't really order out 'cause your wallet's gotten thinner.

Everything from top shelf to bottom is gray and expired,
sadder than the look on Milton's face when he got fired.
Open up the fridge, though consequences may be dire
as you hold your nose and see what may also be retired.

Looks like you're in luck, oh wait no you're not,
your pasta sauce is green and your milk is one big clot,
your ham is pink stink plasma and your cheese's got dots,
so many varieties of fungal foods from Botany Bay to planet rot.

You ain't no ecologist, and it ain't interesting or funny
probing loaves of bread for spores unfriendly to your tummy.
Eyes gettin runny from the assault of the scummy.
Grab what's in the freezer, shut it up, and hope it's money.

Nothing but a wad of beef, still good like the use of chief
to say what's up to friends, pray that it won't later give you the bends.
Season it and mash it up with the one good egg,
no time to think about breakfast tomorrow, dinner must be made.

Stack it all up into the pan, lookin like a cartoon igloo,
turn up the jam box, put it in the oven, and let it do what it do.
An hour or more later, time to bust out a few brews
the meatloaf still ain't ready, but your stomach's startin to moo.

Get on that liquid diet dr. oz has been short sellin
while you ponder all the things that in your head is dwellin'
like why does it always rain while you are asleep, and if you can
rain check your bad luck, roll it into a mortgage, and then sell it.

The jam's almost done like red head women in the sun
so you get up off your ass and check baking tray one.
It's time to take a seat again, hold the fork in your fist
while you shovel home another late night meat wad dish.