The Last Pasta

The fridge door opens and the light comes on.
Shadows fall over the shelves.  Does milk
even come in cartons anymore?  The big ones?
How would you hold it
with no handle?
Pop the cap off of the orange juice.  Fermenting.
Sip.  Not terrible.
Sniff the barbecue sauce.  A fingertip dab
or two.  Make it an even three.  An even four.
The fridge door rests on an ankle.  A butt cheek.
Milk doesn't come in cartons
unless your are twelve.  Maybe nine.
The bread loaf comes out in hand
then returns the same, open end spun plastic
closed easily shrugged dinner bubblegum machine
quarter in and puzzle in an egg game
thumbnail to tile to tile to make a picture
that looks like food.
A blue lid in the crisper draw
by tired toes
handle pulls.
The pasta.  The pasta.  The last pasta
in the house.
A pop of lid's lip,
a very small breath.
There is no Earthly reason,
what songs last pasta sings,
those notes should come
into or from a mouth
when the shelves cup other things.
The light goes out and the fridge door closes.
Shadows fall over the shelves.  Does milk
even come in cartons anymore?

Summer Cuts 4

Lick wire split fingertips.  The sting of the pierce
still fresh and blood dried.

The rule returns:
always use gloves when handling braided cable.

Bicycle repairs to complete.
Simple work underneath the sun and mosquitoes
while dandelions stretch and play.

Grease blacked palm to brow.
80 can feel like 110 and 75 can feel like 50.
Each season
is the most on record, right?

Sun down and chimney swifts
alight back home.  Their winged racket
keeps the bats in.  Traffic signals.
A Sol traffic light.

Heat will play.

Wrench slip and skinned knuckle sigh
breaks the static.  Clouds muscle against
a fire's light of stars.

Somewhere up there
is Summer too
and a kid fixing a bike.

Snot all bad, hawking phlegm at an early moth.
Missed.  Clover patch.  Splat.

A good day is a good day.
Lick fingertips.  Sit and light another.

Sore forearms and long inhalations, one second for each hour
beyond Winter's grip.  Ash, out, pick up the 5/16ths C wrench.

Cat Owner

What do you want on your piece of taco?
Meow.
Taco piece?  What's the difference.  They're the same thing.
Meow.
We're out of meat, but I think there are some beans in-
Meow.
Peanut butter in a taco?
Meow.
Where?
Meow.
That good, hunh?  Well, that's definitely only going on yours.
Meow.
No, I have never been to the Philippines.  Do they even make tacos there?
Meow.
No, there is no meat.  Tuna is a meat.
Meow.
Fish is too a meat.  Not all meats are meats though.
Meow.
Coconut meat.
Meow.
About ten minutes.  Go find your brother and ask him what he wants too.  I'm only making dinner once.
Meow.

Ghosts

I want more.
I want more.
I want more.
Glitch.
Shedding shedding skins and
I want more.
I want more.
I want more.
Bastard by rite
abd-abf?
abz and aba.
Meet half way
thunder meet light
sound barrier meet fright.
Scars.
I want more.
I want more.
I want more.
Thirty two means nothing.
Lock & key.
Swallow it
to know
"...hello, goodbye..."
I'm late.
I'm late.
I'm late.

Satchel

Okay.

Smoker 60

There is a house on a hill
the sun sets south by south
west, catching the asphalt
patches.

If you visit
the horizon
someone will die.

Kiss, wink, survive.

Sloppy seconds and time travel.

Forgive and forget.  Learn new ways toward passion.

If each second can eat a second off,
I am game.  I want to
light a cigarette at the viewing
just to smoke indoors.
A step back
from kicking the coffin off
its stand.

It will be hilarious.

Smoker 59

Between fingertips
embers light and suss.

Tears dry.  We can
kill them.

We can kill them.

Cursed.  Blessed.  War.

Given up on crying.  A teardropular object.

I've heard the stockpiles of drums (bass)
buried beneath the dunes around Dakota
are going south.

Might be the mountains.  My geography is shit.

You heard about that?

Do you have a magic marker?

Silly is like cologne.  Gear?  Three.  Cruising?  Mh-hm.
Cruising speed.  Hypersleep.  Upon arrival
ready
to go to war.  Beheadings
are not without their "cannot go back".  In the theme
of what turns
a rum runner
into a red drum
and a bass runner

is rules.

Three five seven snub hug
hip
hippie
fuck boy wink
rotate

Dream.

Wake.

He can
t
hu
rt
you]]\\\\

He cannot hurt you anymore.  He cannot hurt you.
You are okay.  Ten four?