Rearing

Having a bad word to say
about a two-year-old
does not mean
nutrition facts
are all that I see when
it laughs in my face
after I've growled
"for the last time"
the first time
and the clock hasn't gone
beyond eight.

Lens

I haven't been able to remove myself from my work.
Haw haw.  Is that how people laugh these days?  I
tend to cackle still.  I'm not sure when that started.
It is an abrasive laughter, to be sure.  A sort of demonstrative,
so to speak.
Thinking backward through the years, it is organic.
Has it use?  No.  Absolutely no.  Formed (shall we
dive) in the crucible of gifting courtesies to fit in.
There did cum a time to change because gray areas
had to be clarified.  A courtesy laugh was a curtsy.
A belly laugh was a howl.  My father made jokes.
Cheap jokes.
He had a few dozen recycled ones and a few
that were spurred by the moment of our conversation.
If I had a nickel, I would be fifty dollars richer.
I would destroy him in a battle of construction.     

Easily.

I haven't been able to remove myself from my work.

The remove has not been writer's block

or any myths like it.  Effort to effect

change is pain filled.  I miss flow.

I continue to tell myself, while

dying and hoping for a chance

to pull a trigger with no

repercussions, we will

get back to it.

Patience with

yourself

is key.

Lover's Spree

Sniffles.
Sniffles.
Addicts, we.
Six years older.
"So that's okay?"
I'm pretty sure it is.
The constructs be as they
Heart torn out and shown to me.
Cadence and glory and don't you dare
tell me what I needs.  "Can I be with you?"
A fresh razor is always fresh.  Tucked penis.
Remember the day I picked up a body
while it cried on a stoop five blocks
away from where it was supposed
to be and I shouted into a phone?
Circle the block and gasoline.
Fury and smoke and petty.
A show for the students
going to school in the
afternoon in Spring.
Wanting is flaw.
I love your's.
Do you
love my
own?

Fight Songs

Tony's got a new pair of socks
don't ya know I'm from
the North way out way back
deer do not stack
in piles to be burned though I do enjoy the scent of burning.  Can I come back to collect the bones.  It feels like to hold the scorched ivory against palm when it's still warm and imagine being right up close against the bone when it splits against the force of the brain expanding, cooked and smattering, splitting and greasy, like a gecko slithering between cracks unhinging, the skull well greased and...

Tome.

To make a breaking wave and shaking in its haze and quaking, jog.  Just.

What is just.  Describe yourself in twenty thousand words and just.

The toast did not go over well.  At least the toaster worked.  Pretty well as far as sound goes.   I have not heard the ghost screaming through the fabric of time and space and I have run the numbers and it will be at least twenty two years.  Before anyone will have a solid answer after you are dead and gone.  There will be plenty of time to wonder.  About why we are here is a delicious symptom of too much.  Could be waking and realizing you are. How

Vomit.

Vomit.

Flett''s got a new pair of socks.
Don't ya know!
I'm from!

The North way!

Out back-
If you shout,
I've heard,
the trunks of the trees atop Skinner's peak
will howl back.

The Scrapyard In July

One mile above the sea floor
and four miles beneath the waves
and feathered sunlight
and shadows streaking between
innumerable clouds
silt drifts
snow.
Leaves tilt
in the wind and pollen
gifts fits of sneeze, gripping
a steering wheel while sweat falls.
On the scale for the dozenth time,
windows down while music blares,
how much is the metal worth?

The trees are shedding again.

Beach ball sized seeds
in the breeze come inside
from the driver window down and out
through the passenger.

75 yards ahead
a toy caterpillar armored beast
piles engine blocks together,
the scent of their collective grease
thick as sunlight in the air.

Do not worry, baby.  I will not
let it eat you.

Green light to drive to the pit
where appliances go to die.

Have We Met

You have a bone collection!  I have one too.
Run a nail underneath each opalescent scale
above your blades and muscle, hard enough
to snatch a chuckle burbled the way
birds do at night before the clocks are set back.


I miss you.


You have a paper collection!  I have one too.
Writhe upward from a squat the way snakes do,
venomous, dorsal tines sparking
the way metal is wont and ripped,
turned toward rock and sand.


I miss you.


You have a tool collection!  I have one too.
Bridge nosed close; backward petaled
eyebrows feathering in hymns,
your charred skin and scorched hair stench
mingled with my own.


I miss you.

Summer Swig

The water bottle
still capped
on the countertop
beside where a wallet laid.
Keys retrieved and pocketed.
A yellow miniature duffle
once laid on the rug below;
a mess of oil splotched wrenches,
drivers, machine odored rags, and
electrical odds inside.
A bead of ice cold condensation
rolls down its shimmering body
to pool at counter's edge.
Each droplet begs for
the kiss of human lips
on their way down.
Pops and a sudden hiss
from the bottle mouth:
impatience!  "Drink me"
the ice inside demands.
Too late remembered.
Too far at work.
Warm as the day is long
by the time
home is gained once more.
Water bottle
poured and capped fresh
returned to tomorrow's
freezer door.