Gummy bear
flavored eye liner
so that when you cry
you will blow your nose
into your bottom sheet,
waking, to find your tongue
in a tropical wonderland.
Two Transportation Authority passes
from 2009. I am pretty sure
they are no good now,
you never know.
One broken cigarette. Is that the pebble
beach all along the lining?
Well I am pretty sure
it is no good now.
A letter opener.
That one is not supposed to be in there.
Key ring with keys. A straw
with no sleeve. A notepad.
A pumice stone that looks like lipstick.
And a bedpan. There is some
pelletized glass and an
uncapped sharpie next to
a fourthed piece of brick
with a dime sized sticker on it too.
That's about it, though.
And a receipt.
And a nickel.
That's about it.
original works of parts
Smoker 52
I killed a plant today.
I taped it back together.
As long as fluids can pass
along the cellulose tubes
with sun for days
it will be fine. It is not
dead if I do not see it.
Right? Remember
not closing Torus's eyes
before sliding his body
into the garbage bag. Before
cutting off all of his whiskers.
You have to see
in the next one and
whiskers are only useful when
three dimensions are-
-together again,
the process was all wrong.
Overcome
with grief
linear paths
are wrapping
rose bush branches
in packing tape
to hear the snap of resistance on thorn
and start over
to do something
anything to agent.
the plant is dead. Is dead days through.
You are not allowed to leave
until I say so.
I taped it back together.
As long as fluids can pass
along the cellulose tubes
with sun for days
it will be fine. It is not
dead if I do not see it.
Right? Remember
not closing Torus's eyes
before sliding his body
into the garbage bag. Before
cutting off all of his whiskers.
You have to see
in the next one and
whiskers are only useful when
three dimensions are-
-together again,
the process was all wrong.
Overcome
with grief
linear paths
are wrapping
rose bush branches
in packing tape
to hear the snap of resistance on thorn
and start over
to do something
anything to agent.
the plant is dead. Is dead days through.
You are not allowed to leave
until I say so.
The Sandman's Phonebook
Come to rake books,
if you do get two nights
or two days worth of sleep
each week
you are
golden.
However the statistics are compiled.
Fear not. Fatigue is a
t-shirt and a slogan.
A lost chorus line of teeth
is progress.
Could be a t-shirt too.
No matter how the hours
are stolen away from the ember licked door,
they are currency and with them
on our eyelids
walk & growl,
motor shakes
to keep time.
if you do get two nights
or two days worth of sleep
each week
you are
golden.
However the statistics are compiled.
Fear not. Fatigue is a
t-shirt and a slogan.
A lost chorus line of teeth
is progress.
Could be a t-shirt too.
No matter how the hours
are stolen away from the ember licked door,
they are currency and with them
on our eyelids
walk & growl,
motor shakes
to keep time.
I Wanted to Have Children
Work to tend the bones and tissue paper of this body
while its mind decays its every core
until the day it slumps like a pumpkin in July,
sun beaten, fly ridden, gas plumaged, colorful
in the way wood nearly charcoal
will glisten in the right cut of daylight.
"Who's afraid of a great big clock?"
Another death, another thing this body
will refuse or break to do. Dare turn the key,
then knob, and force the door again?
Dare fumble one arm into that dark, cheek pressed
to the door's jamb, eyes pressed closed,
teeth pinching tongue's tip to
remember where the damned switch is
before something cold and wire haired and wet
brushes your wrist and you rip your arm away.
"No, please. Please, come in,"
says the dark doorway. You'd better run.
Leave it closed, but linger,
palm to the metal knob.
"Die now. Die later. It is all the same to us."
while its mind decays its every core
until the day it slumps like a pumpkin in July,
sun beaten, fly ridden, gas plumaged, colorful
in the way wood nearly charcoal
will glisten in the right cut of daylight.
"Who's afraid of a great big clock?"
Another death, another thing this body
will refuse or break to do. Dare turn the key,
then knob, and force the door again?
Dare fumble one arm into that dark, cheek pressed
to the door's jamb, eyes pressed closed,
teeth pinching tongue's tip to
remember where the damned switch is
before something cold and wire haired and wet
brushes your wrist and you rip your arm away.
"No, please. Please, come in,"
says the dark doorway. You'd better run.
Leave it closed, but linger,
palm to the metal knob.
"Die now. Die later. It is all the same to us."
The First Summer Mosquito
Yesterday morning a nightmare climbed into my head,
too hot for blankets, a rouged tongue seeking relief
unwound in spilled sunrise drapes underneath my skin,
on my back, sleep writhe hips, balls drawn tight,
urine rushes through thin air to dash,
beads of glass up my nose,
glitter slashes, sparks fly! Shaft aches,
swells, and spills. My god, desire shovel fed,
but still panting, now upright awake,
dribble tip and chin, fog cream and scent,
damn it, I have pissed the bed.
Laundry comes around and goes,
dried, and showered, buffed, unclothed
before the first car keys turn in streets.
Gaze down at toes wiggled on my feet
and tug at the little hairs from hips
to belly box and on back down
to giggle and prod the doors of the
coiled copper dynamo: now off.
Up along the leaves of ribs
where muscles lace knit fingers.
In and out and in until
the slick hairs of pits...
...what's this? An itch? A bite?
In the tiny hairs about my nipple?!
An itch! Why did I scratch?
I can't help it now! I can't help it now.
A mosquito in the land.
Somewhere in my room.
It is must die
before I can dare to close my eyes,
for it is too hot for blankets,
too hot for clothes,
and even so, what if it bites my nose?
This could take hours.
This could take weeks!
Accumulate bites like a flesh tally sheet?
Hum at ear, the pitch high,
allow hands to reflex fly!
Open palm, breath calm, a dark smudge
and a shimmer of crushed wing.
Reach around the mattress edge to rub
the grime away.
A thin skin of sweat vanishes
beneath the ceiling fan, fingertips clench and
release the bottom sheet. Spread legs in the
heat and the breeze from above,
a long morning quiets,
sorting pieces of dueled dreams, come the tide of sleep.
All is well in the land
the first mosquito deceased.
too hot for blankets, a rouged tongue seeking relief
unwound in spilled sunrise drapes underneath my skin,
on my back, sleep writhe hips, balls drawn tight,
urine rushes through thin air to dash,
beads of glass up my nose,
glitter slashes, sparks fly! Shaft aches,
swells, and spills. My god, desire shovel fed,
but still panting, now upright awake,
dribble tip and chin, fog cream and scent,
damn it, I have pissed the bed.
Laundry comes around and goes,
dried, and showered, buffed, unclothed
before the first car keys turn in streets.
Gaze down at toes wiggled on my feet
and tug at the little hairs from hips
to belly box and on back down
to giggle and prod the doors of the
coiled copper dynamo: now off.
Up along the leaves of ribs
where muscles lace knit fingers.
In and out and in until
the slick hairs of pits...
...what's this? An itch? A bite?
In the tiny hairs about my nipple?!
An itch! Why did I scratch?
I can't help it now! I can't help it now.
A mosquito in the land.
Somewhere in my room.
It is must die
before I can dare to close my eyes,
for it is too hot for blankets,
too hot for clothes,
and even so, what if it bites my nose?
This could take hours.
This could take weeks!
Accumulate bites like a flesh tally sheet?
Hum at ear, the pitch high,
allow hands to reflex fly!
Open palm, breath calm, a dark smudge
and a shimmer of crushed wing.
Reach around the mattress edge to rub
the grime away.
A thin skin of sweat vanishes
beneath the ceiling fan, fingertips clench and
release the bottom sheet. Spread legs in the
heat and the breeze from above,
a long morning quiets,
sorting pieces of dueled dreams, come the tide of sleep.
All is well in the land
the first mosquito deceased.
Garden Party
The bats come at evenings tip.
Mars finds its place at supper's table
beside the moon. Sirius will
be fashionably late.
Henry is in the clipped grass filled trench
at yard's end where the fence
meets cinder blocks and fresh earth
crawls with enough insects
to call down Robins
throughout an afternoon.
The forward guard.
A Finch? A starling? A crow
would not waste its time
in a howling, whirlwind, beak snapping
fly by! Tucked low in an unfinished
garden trench at the fence
of a flat world: test! Fur ridge rise
and lay flat and flatter to ground.
Still toward invisibility. Blend.
Pant and blend. Blend. Blend.
The Big Dipper and one satellite.
Xibulba? No, Venus. The Little Dipper
and Orion. Taurus? No, that's an airplane,
that's actually Saturn. This time of year?
Why is it flickering?
Carpenter bee
shoves dust into the air
to make its way
toward the fire's tail.
Through the twilight
lances a pair of eye sized reflectors,
a white beard beneath,
a hazel serpent,
white tipped,
dancing above the blades of grass behind.
The point man is vigilant. The forward guard
reports no activity on the Southern front.
Canary at a get together.
The stars align,
the moon hums,
drinks flow,
the cat does his duty.
Smoker 51
The days when everyone was crazed for
sour diesel? An unmistakable stench
capable of rendering a goat blind
from thirty miles afield?
A taste for subtlety
comes with age. A punch can be
delivered in many ways. The first time
understanding dawned and eyes peer in
to the depths of a cave and see
shades instead of black velvet draped
at its mouth.
The latest craze, the waves wash
and tumble dry. Snap and then fold.
Those days are far behind. What's in
a name. A shotgun for a fly. An axe
for a bird. A two mile tall mech
for a skirmish.
Degrees only come with age.
Hues, and tastes, and contrast.
Every fire is unique.
Every lick of flame its own blaze
across the lake of space time and
find a galaxy to call home.
sour diesel? An unmistakable stench
capable of rendering a goat blind
from thirty miles afield?
A taste for subtlety
comes with age. A punch can be
delivered in many ways. The first time
understanding dawned and eyes peer in
to the depths of a cave and see
shades instead of black velvet draped
at its mouth.
The latest craze, the waves wash
and tumble dry. Snap and then fold.
Those days are far behind. What's in
a name. A shotgun for a fly. An axe
for a bird. A two mile tall mech
for a skirmish.
Degrees only come with age.
Hues, and tastes, and contrast.
Every fire is unique.
Every lick of flame its own blaze
across the lake of space time and
find a galaxy to call home.
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