You smile and
I see--peering through the window
From my POV, you’re inside, without me.
Our secrets are few, and If
I were less vain, I would conclude
you smile, alone at some phantom tap
at the corner of your brain
producing incoherent yet
consistent warmth.
that you are tickled by
such a simple fact of your life,
abstract as it may be;
that with your worry
ambition and
heartache,
I spy with my own two eyes,
from the vantage point of our back porch,
a private smile that detects
the threat of capture.
what you truly see
I can only guess, for our POV's
meet uncertainly. though we
are at times so similar as to
induce a shudder
that is crushed by your skin,
when you hook our legs and mount me like I’m
some pious, reasonable, hard working,
farmer.
peering through my own window
enjoying your private moment,
in which, I daydream,
I am the principle actor.
I am witnessing a reverie:
that husband of mine, you think,
and smile, teeth bared, alone,
in that moment as you can never be when I’m within your POV
You are perfect alone
in the forest I cannot see
the bears,
or the sun
coursing through the canopy
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Saturday, November 14, 2015
strange town, familiar smell
the sign on the door says
Believe in Jesus
Christ Be Saved.
By God,
I knock and score
Believe in Jesus
Christ Be Saved.
By God,
I knock and score
enough for me
and my friend Ben,
the suicidal Chihuahua,
to get tranquilized
alley-wise over by the Walgreens.
between dumpsters
lie wicked dreams:
alley-wise over by the Walgreens.
between dumpsters
lie wicked dreams:
deposit me in the passenger seat
of didion's yellow corvette
screaming down
early sunday morning streets,
one of flannery's peacocks
winging the wheel.
intimacy gone stale
as a half box of cracker jacks
in an Aztec time machine.
piss on that smell.
George Carlin said
we should die first
spend our last nine months on earth
in a womb and
finish as an
orgasm.
I guess that'll be the safe word,
I says,
to a rat wearing a leather mask
I guess that'll be the safe word,
I says,
to a rat wearing a leather mask
who
is rumored to infect
his sexual partners
with a nasty strain of optimism
with a nasty strain of optimism
Notes From Ben, The Suicidal Chihuahua
Stalking the white kitten
through Longhorn cattle pens
road side sign says
Believe in Jesus
Christ Be Saved
By God
I rustle up enough chocolate
to choke a greyhound
AutoZone dude helps me track a lead
for old school antifreeze
huffin’ the sweet stuff
alley-wise behind the Walgreens
between dumpsters
tranquilized
wicked dreams
treed by a peck of pigeon-toed
cat-hounds
Didion screaming at the peacocks to shut Flannery down
Sunday morning pavement
cloudy thousand yard stare
a mutt I used to run with.
sniffin' that ass
well
piss on that smell
no safe-word today
I say
to Madam Bull Shark in her lovely
studded mohair wrap
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Concrete
In the kitchen
expiration dates present
olfactory opportunities
sounds of soffritto and mirepoix linger
clamoring to dignify
our wilting intentions
At the sink
she stink-eyed the wet plate, dripping dirty dish water
indicating a spot on the rim where I missed these toughened little clutches of melted cheddar.
I left her hanging
plate in suspension
refusing the offer,
formulating events I could immediately identify as worse,
far worse,
than a nearly spotless dish
that slipped from her grip
and crashed at our feet
Fuck, what the fuck?
watch it, wait.
Damn you, we thought,
as I sucked my bloody finger.
In the dresser
the diminishing significance of her undergarments
In the bathroom
pain and pills
From here to eternity
kids and bills
conclusions based on highly connotative words.
absent atmosphere, pretext and subtext will fall the same rate
but I need a bowling ball
dropped on my foot
a claw hammer straight to the knee
my pledge of allegiance to abstract ideas
betrays the concrete she.
expiration dates present
olfactory opportunities
sounds of soffritto and mirepoix linger
clamoring to dignify
our wilting intentions
At the sink
she stink-eyed the wet plate, dripping dirty dish water
indicating a spot on the rim where I missed these toughened little clutches of melted cheddar.
I left her hanging
plate in suspension
refusing the offer,
formulating events I could immediately identify as worse,
far worse,
than a nearly spotless dish
that slipped from her grip
and crashed at our feet
Fuck, what the fuck?
watch it, wait.
Damn you, we thought,
as I sucked my bloody finger.
In the dresser
the diminishing significance of her undergarments
In the bathroom
pain and pills
From here to eternity
kids and bills
conclusions based on highly connotative words.
absent atmosphere, pretext and subtext will fall the same rate
but I need a bowling ball
dropped on my foot
a claw hammer straight to the knee
my pledge of allegiance to abstract ideas
betrays the concrete she.
It Don't Rain In Phoenix
Rains again like every day the day before
10 different ways
streets as slick as glass
and the green light glows
dusk gives up the ghost for now
my bones stay cold and I'm feeling how
the desert sun is calling out my name
I tell them where I met you
underneath the Coal Creek Bridge
they look at me with sympathy
when you whisper
the way you enunciate
polyvinyl acetate
makes me think you are more agile than you appear
operatic in her grandeur,
plumpuscular, muscular, absolutely glistening
with slime
one misty Sunday morning,
coal creek running after rain
I saw the biggest, blackest, coldest, slickest, slowest, slug there ever was
she said hello
clap clap
She said I’m Black
clap clap
I’m sure you never ever met a gal like me
clap clap
I take my time
clap clap
don’t cost a dime
clap clap
I am divine
clap clap
I’ll make a squeamish weeping willow sapling scream
She eased me down from off the ledge
didn’t need as much whiskey to get right in the head,
she sorted out my day with something good
then one night the phone call came, she could tell when I walked way
leaving her to fret alone in our tiny livingroom
broke it to her like poetry,
the dusk gives up the ghost for now
my bones stay cold and I’m feeling how
that Greyhound bus is calling out my name
she said, but it don’t rain in Phoenix
and when you get to sweating it burns a like hell
we’ve had a good time baby
didn’t expect I’d ever have this much to tell
It don’t rain in Phoenix
I might melt in the sun
there ain’t no slugs in the canyon
there ain’t no “us” on the run.
so I put her on my shoulder,
hiked back up to Coal Creek Bridge
lifted up a rotten log set her down
in the patchy fog, slime trails
starlight bouncing off bubble frogs
balls strung so tight I couldn’t see no way around it
hitch up my grocery sack
cans and clothes and a folded map
grab me a seat all the way in the back,
diesel fumes make me hungry for some eggs
I wonder about my hermaphrodite,
she made me feel half way allright,
scorpions can’t do it near as like she did.
Repairs
fence posts were rotten
with slobber and mud,
rain and grubs
so they snapped, but
reinforcements are en route.
until then, while de fence is down,
neighbor,
let us lick
away
the infection
with slobber and mud,
rain and grubs
so they snapped, but
reinforcements are en route.
until then, while de fence is down,
neighbor,
let us lick
away
the infection
Lunch With Uncle Barry
Lunch.
Stoned. Early, waiting
sweet tea looking
NHL finals (chicago and boston) on a
volkswagon TV.
motherboard
birthed others of its kind, each
beaming sport.
Spurs and The Heat
battle on to game 7.
Damnations. Dude shows.
family.
guys like this tick faintly til thier tiny hearts barely explode.
questions, reveal
mine.
desperation, guessing who has the juice. But I sit
in judgement. secure
simple lunch date, repeated
unreturned calls,
once from a different
number to throw
me off.
Uncle Barry. Ahhhh, s'ben a long time kid (Me: '72, He: '69)
reunion, wife number
9 in tow, cow-eyed, still
ignoring the
notion that this whole thing was a huge load of
shit, it was.
Not two weeks already he’s walking
ten steps in front of her.
stopping, waiting. turning. eyebrows, open mouth
Stoned. Early, waiting
sweet tea looking
NHL finals (chicago and boston) on a
volkswagon TV.
motherboard
birthed others of its kind, each
beaming sport.
Spurs and The Heat
battle on to game 7.
Damnations. Dude shows.
family.
guys like this tick faintly til thier tiny hearts barely explode.
questions, reveal
mine.
desperation, guessing who has the juice. But I sit
in judgement. secure
simple lunch date, repeated
unreturned calls,
once from a different
number to throw
me off.
Uncle Barry. Ahhhh, s'ben a long time kid (Me: '72, He: '69)
reunion, wife number
9 in tow, cow-eyed, still
ignoring the
notion that this whole thing was a huge load of
shit, it was.
Not two weeks already he’s walking
ten steps in front of her.
stopping, waiting. turning. eyebrows, open mouth
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