Through the window
snow does its damnedest to stick
on hot streetlit concrete and
windshields still warm
from tweens rushing by on their
longboard
scooter
harness
listless
stroller
bikes
rainbow
tasteful sneakers. Hand prints and
smoke rings blossom into hula hoops
against glass. Hours ago and
a few days ahead, only a few.
By street light,
snow flurries
do not stick.
Snowball fights are
out of the question.
The stairs are an afterthought.
Tongue out.
By streetlight,
one sorbet snowflake at a time.
You have to wait
seven months
to breath
the chance
to do it
again and again,
snowflake by snowflake,
consume until
the cold runs hot
&
fingertips burn black.
original works of parts
Dinner With A Friend
the audience will find you
It should be red. The steak. It should be red.
If it's not bleeding, you're not eating.
Asparagus snaps between incisors
and a flake of block of butter bathed
parmesan lights up pink buds.
The Gusaroo G'shon old man cat
paws at the knees of jeans.
Shooting dice again
after smoking his last black and mild
begging for ten cents
to get a bite to eat is all.
Bus fare would be nice.
Everyone in western Pennsylvania
owns guns and bows.
The drug line does not exist. It's a spectrum
not a line. More of a mindset.
Poundcake is tremendous, no matter the season.
How fantastic would a fine joke about sugar,
glaze, fruit, and the piece is gone.
Rolling on brake drums when tire,
rim, and spindle fly apart
on another sugar high.
Deal with one another. Chill, Winston.
What do they look like naked?
Is now a good time to smoke?
Save some for the kitties.
Tin and tupperware.
Make a good impression. Met again.
Met again. Met again.
Make a milk shake out of Poundcake!
Drizzle glaze atop.
Pocket, pocket, everything! Pocket, pocket!
Stomach sings into an empty jug
while a banjo twang
cuts clear through the air.
On a Sunday? No.
Tread light. Listen. Carry when necessary,
allow, gift, enable, and enjoy agency to
blacken nasal cavities and remember
with ease. Fury melts away,
licked teeth and clementine ash and a solid as hell
ball of snotted saliva.
Should have worn eye shadow today.
To balance sunken sockets.
Starvation was worth quinoa farts.
Walk past a piano
without dropping a fingertip,
dare.
The last time setting a table without supervision.
Close to the first time.
Where in the holy hell does the knife go?
A spoon. A spoon!? The world has gone mad!
They said there weren't going to be any spoons!
Okay, bully.
And where are the doilys?
The marinade is wonderful. Lemon pepper,
right. The vinegar is sassy. Just pepper and some salt?
Met again. Met again.
The last time the piece in the kiln was turned
was twelve minutes ago.
Come with?
Ember flare. Garlic on the wind, wasted,
gurgling in an oven and pouring through window seams.
Asparagus asks for dehydration.
Embers flare again. The kiln closes up shop
and shutters her doors. Lick teeth
thinking about the last time tongue
pressed to scalloped blade edge to
cradle the work of another hand.
Good night, my darling.
It should be red. The steak. It should be red.
If it's not bleeding, you're not eating.
Asparagus snaps between incisors
and a flake of block of butter bathed
parmesan lights up pink buds.
The Gusaroo G'shon old man cat
paws at the knees of jeans.
Shooting dice again
after smoking his last black and mild
begging for ten cents
to get a bite to eat is all.
Bus fare would be nice.
Everyone in western Pennsylvania
owns guns and bows.
The drug line does not exist. It's a spectrum
not a line. More of a mindset.
Poundcake is tremendous, no matter the season.
How fantastic would a fine joke about sugar,
glaze, fruit, and the piece is gone.
Rolling on brake drums when tire,
rim, and spindle fly apart
on another sugar high.
Deal with one another. Chill, Winston.
What do they look like naked?
Is now a good time to smoke?
Save some for the kitties.
Tin and tupperware.
Make a good impression. Met again.
Met again. Met again.
Make a milk shake out of Poundcake!
Drizzle glaze atop.
Pocket, pocket, everything! Pocket, pocket!
Stomach sings into an empty jug
while a banjo twang
cuts clear through the air.
On a Sunday? No.
Tread light. Listen. Carry when necessary,
allow, gift, enable, and enjoy agency to
blacken nasal cavities and remember
with ease. Fury melts away,
licked teeth and clementine ash and a solid as hell
ball of snotted saliva.
Should have worn eye shadow today.
To balance sunken sockets.
Starvation was worth quinoa farts.
Walk past a piano
without dropping a fingertip,
dare.
The last time setting a table without supervision.
Close to the first time.
Where in the holy hell does the knife go?
A spoon. A spoon!? The world has gone mad!
They said there weren't going to be any spoons!
Okay, bully.
And where are the doilys?
The marinade is wonderful. Lemon pepper,
right. The vinegar is sassy. Just pepper and some salt?
Met again. Met again.
The last time the piece in the kiln was turned
was twelve minutes ago.
Come with?
Ember flare. Garlic on the wind, wasted,
gurgling in an oven and pouring through window seams.
Asparagus asks for dehydration.
Embers flare again. The kiln closes up shop
and shutters her doors. Lick teeth
thinking about the last time tongue
pressed to scalloped blade edge to
cradle the work of another hand.
Good night, my darling.
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