title match

Meals born in the morning,
nursed over an afternoon.
stripped of domesticity
cause the kids aren’t home.
or more  precisely,
as an afterthought to last night’s fight,
resonating, unresolved in D minor.
in this corner
8 feet and 250 pounds of solid Mexican pine
raw blonde wood
fine dining
bathed
in pool hall light.
There’s the bell.
time lapse
season of coffee cups,
bills and backpacks
dull pencils and papers to sign.
Exhausted bottles of wine--
knocked out every night.
for the main event,
we unleash a litany of every
natural phenomena
even vaguely connected to the food on our table:
Sub-atomic elemental mechanics of evolution;
the reproductive zeal of our civilized ancestors;
durable seeds and delicious animals
so capably domesticated.

Free Admission!

admitting that your poems make no sense is a start.
typing really fast is a good, solid follow up move.
People react to abandonment in different ways.
Mary shut herself off from the rest of the world.
any
maternal instinct
she might still harbor she
knows she must protect
from the damage they will do
to get the drug they need.

Karl on the other hand, opened himself wide,
made himself a target,
took chances
with what he considered
a worthless life.
Everything he touched turned to shit.
There was no formality to the depths he would plunge.

most of it anyway

forgotten as they wheel her out onto the stage.
she will only be vaguely aware of who they are,
so many of these parties.
she
said it. you have your life.
knock on her door not six in the morning
missing shoes and teeth. wet
from god knows how.

when doves grill

miscreant scent of regret
la paloma peligroso
roasts
crow jane
sipping
highball on iceberg rocks.
sticky wing swats
fire ants from their
mons pubescent mounds

the quality/quantity connection

would have been nice for you
to have delivered it
with like a mariachi, and maybe some pizza rolls,
timothy hay, alfalfa...
you could have gotten all dressed up,
hired a small dog in a cute sweater
to gently drop it at my feet.
but I guess you’re busy or something.

before you start these lessons,
take some time with your whip.
quietly rub it all over your body.
once you are comfortable
you'll be able to use it like a puppet
to engage  the alien tangled in your head,
with the most universal of languages: laughter

hot air balloons,
the trembling leaves,
change in light and shadow
patches of daisies and weeds
all potential triggers
for flight

so she spooks?
been known to bolt

training should begin at home
alter your tone
to indicate stability

you start biting,
I’ll be like, damn baby, what the fuck
un-hitch that taut line
on them drawstrings.

yeah.

but then, you know,
when
we do, we
synchronize--
(them kids gone be traumatized)

escalationary tale

 her formidable frame-span
is anchored by the heat & heft of
yoga ball hips.
the smell of  a shampooed possum
curls
up the corner, green
indicating into which
books were shoved
the incriminating letters.

a bucket from the River Thames
was plucked,
on the night she slid the bundle
in the slot,
by a bystander
who spied it afloat carrying
mutilated finger
food,
foot-
longs, and
soggy madeleines.

the loss of her reputation was sped
by venom in stories that changed
and abrasions that stained her skin

When I was still afraid of God

he rigged fishing line to my bedroom door
after The Exorcist
prime time
yanked it
shut with the same stroke he used to
paint black and blue midnight
across freshly stretched canvas

rending in the gale

Maybe someone wishes the wind were just singing,
because ees yelling,
the abusive wind.
screaming Japanese
at high speed,
accompanied by a chorus of sheet metal roofs
pitched at angles that produce ungodly whines.
ungodly whines?
no. sheet metal roofs pitched at angles that produce a symphony of
rusted moan.
moan? no.
sustained, non stop, no rest, constant,
coked-up pipe organ shriek.

we long for the wind to sing. 

Lay you down and softly whisper

love is sour cream.
my strategy:
service.
make her life easy. easier at least so
that when the reckoning comes she'll
admit--
I could do worse.

the moon discovers
fingernail clippings
in corners and dusty cans
brylcream ads
slick black jet white
for the sake of aerodynamics, ladies, sit back, relax, enjoy
my new 8 tracks.

chicken-foot floats in porcine green jello mold
creek water
still life with snapping turtles
in the bed of  the truck.
toes tucked and a tire iron.

we'll be up until dawn:
fritz the nite owl & flippo the clown,
Big Chuck and Lil’ John
under the influence of midnight frosted flakes
color TV embrace me.

mistaking her for the 17 year old he married
got his nose broke.
not long after
he dawned the horse collar
imitating Animal imitating Keith Moon

she left a leatherette box
with tiny
kapow! accents.
tiered
with bougainvillea
powders and cream,
clip on things,
plastic brooches and tangled chains.
girlfriends dressed like curtains to
match her fancy-fied casket,
short-legged uncles
in Cuban heels
sink into cookie monster
shag.
Bakelite hi-fi stereo console
coos Conway Twitty.
tubes produce a diffusion of
fresh bread & band-aids
textured rose fabric finish
(gold flecked)

she looks good
enough to grab
by the shoulders.
check for that smile.

are you for real dead?