Soviet progress
measured by the ton
10 lb tampons
falling chandeliers
Monday, February 23, 2015
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Whodunnit
11/8/14
I have a son. Who seems strange to me, a stranger even. I’m afraid I’m doing everything wrong. Or maybe not enough of anything as he disappears into his bedroom without saying
goodnight. The boy doesn't ever ask for anything but I know he wants to go fishing. On the surface our relationship, if a
little awkward at times, seems relatively healthy. We talk and laugh and I pack his lunch in the morning. I’m interested in him, in what he has to say. I’m
perplexed at how sharp he is, never fully comfortable or certain that he’s just
a normal kid. I make sure he knows he is appreciated and as much as I can, that
he is loved. And... here it goes.
My father hauled miscellaneous dangerous goods from Columbus, Ohio to St. Louis, Missouri for Chief Freight Lines. His handle was "Short Ribs." Mine was "The Baseball Bandit." The languorous threat of violence that pulsated from my Mom I could predict and avoid. But it was a chore to solve for my Dad's random wrath. He split when I was in 5th grade, a little younger than the boy is now. I craved his attention and approval even more after he left and when he didn't deliver, I turned to the men that my mom began to date. It was a sickening lack of loyalty on my part, allowing strange young men to sit on the couch where my dad existed during his short stints at home, eating, snoring, catching up on General Hospital.
Weekends I spent with step-mom. The aptly named Barb was a hard and loud woman who revealed to my mom, in our front yard, her very special relationship to my father as he ducked into the passenger seat of her yellow Dodge Omni, the one with those bitchin' rear/side window louvers. Dad and I watched her straddle behind her own son to commence the ritual brushing of his waist-length dark auburn hair, which would last through an entire Bugs Bunny/Road Runner show deep into the Saturday morning lineup. Butch ate cereal while being brushed, disappearing now and then into the apartment complex to deliver tiny Ziploc cocaines.
I was a whore. And it never paid off. My solicitations earned nothing. What a lost and ridiculous boy. I waited years before I unleashed the bitterness on my mom. When we were finally alone. When she had finally rid herself of one last disappointing man, I became the monster I should have been years before.
So I take the boy fishing.
My father hauled miscellaneous dangerous goods from Columbus, Ohio to St. Louis, Missouri for Chief Freight Lines. His handle was "Short Ribs." Mine was "The Baseball Bandit." The languorous threat of violence that pulsated from my Mom I could predict and avoid. But it was a chore to solve for my Dad's random wrath. He split when I was in 5th grade, a little younger than the boy is now. I craved his attention and approval even more after he left and when he didn't deliver, I turned to the men that my mom began to date. It was a sickening lack of loyalty on my part, allowing strange young men to sit on the couch where my dad existed during his short stints at home, eating, snoring, catching up on General Hospital.
Weekends I spent with step-mom. The aptly named Barb was a hard and loud woman who revealed to my mom, in our front yard, her very special relationship to my father as he ducked into the passenger seat of her yellow Dodge Omni, the one with those bitchin' rear/side window louvers. Dad and I watched her straddle behind her own son to commence the ritual brushing of his waist-length dark auburn hair, which would last through an entire Bugs Bunny/Road Runner show deep into the Saturday morning lineup. Butch ate cereal while being brushed, disappearing now and then into the apartment complex to deliver tiny Ziploc cocaines.
I was a whore. And it never paid off. My solicitations earned nothing. What a lost and ridiculous boy. I waited years before I unleashed the bitterness on my mom. When we were finally alone. When she had finally rid herself of one last disappointing man, I became the monster I should have been years before.
So I take the boy fishing.
The Baron
10/25/14
Baron the barista thought he had won again. But you could
forgive him this time. The girl had the persistent problem of losing track, of
staring at objects not as they were traditionally, but differently, and
intensely as impressions and shapes. Colors not animated by anything she would
call human, but moving independently nonetheless. She would obsess over these shapes: groups of
things, patches of dead grass, building facades; but more often what caught her
eye was the face. And so as she pays for her coffee, she looks at what is
the upper right quadrant of the barista’s face, how it squinted like the squat
penis of the chubby high school counselor she slept with in high school.
And though her true senses fixate on the erotic patch of skin at the angle of
his chin where there is no trace of stubble, her secondary senses, dulled by
neglect; senses that compel us to finally release
the hand of the stranger we have just met—these senses quietly
urged her to look away. But she could
not. And when the barista, who called
himself The Baron, caught her stare, the electro-thump pumping through the cafe speakers became his own personal soundtrack. It seeped into the
foreground inspiring high pours and behind the back theatrics. He announced his drinks as if he were narrating a documentary.
The cashier placed change in her hand which reminded the girl vaguely of
the world outside the world she existed in at this moment, which was populated
explicitly by The Baron’s nose. She dropped
the change in her purse. Just one nose that provided enough canvas for an
entirely new person, an additional face on The Baron’s face. Light struggled to escape the vacuum of its blown out pores. This was a living, breathing entity that deserved
autonomy, independence, women’s suffrage. Revolutionary lines traced this
appendage-creature like a Mexican mountain road. The Baron pretended he was alone, a rebel
working in the confines of a corporate structure, but her intense attention
forced him to check his fly and thumb that nose like a feather weight boxer. It moves, she said to herself, which broke
the spell. The Baron called her latte. The back of his neck tingled as he recited the exotic name that was written on the cup. He leaned toward and pointed to his ear. “What’re you
listening to?” She watched his two lips move underneath that nose and
just a moment too late, nodded and said “Thanks.”
Sir Sparky Kaspersky
10/24/14
He stepped into the light. He stepped out into the light.
He took another step. He stepped again. Counting his steps he began to walk. He
chose a point in the distance, the tallest tree he could see, and walked toward
the tree, hoping that when he arrived there would be some other concrete noun that
would make sense as a new destination. Counting steps with the conversation
looping in his head. When he arrived at the tree, nothing had changed. He
looked around for another destination; the clouds ran over the sun, crushed
Styrofoam pulsed like a beacon. It’s time to go back now she said, taking his
hand, we’ll do it again tomorrow.
Belated Birthdays
10/19/14
perilous lives of uncles and aunts,
glowing neon nostalgia,
curvaceous and mean.
they must go…
good god, we all must,
as the sno cone melts,
Cornelio sputters
about there was a time,
and my narcoti-sized mind wades in the words and his breath.
We settle,
nest
within these tentacled sheets
where burglar bars threaten to burn us alive.
my little girl struts in her mother’s shoes,
and I pray she breaks every little heart that comes her way.
mid-life with children.
distance and death,
promise of life,
fully baked
angel food box cake,
3 candles short
11 days late
glowing neon nostalgia,
curvaceous and mean.
they must go…
good god, we all must,
as the sno cone melts,
Cornelio sputters
about there was a time,
and my narcoti-sized mind wades in the words and his breath.
We settle,
nest
within these tentacled sheets
where burglar bars threaten to burn us alive.
my little girl struts in her mother’s shoes,
and I pray she breaks every little heart that comes her way.
mid-life with children.
distance and death,
promise of life,
fully baked
angel food box cake,
3 candles short
11 days late
Sounds Thinking
interest rate translates commitment
Does your pain inflame nostalgia, confounded
nonproductive pump. stumbling self-consciousness,
when I begin to breed confidence I will sell it for a dollar
and the blue eyed dude, whose eyes are turning white, sends a picture that says
wait. the refrigerator is leaking. the house is peeling
revealing
bats on big-wheels. innocent insects?
(crunch, captain.)
honk bzz & beep real life; you go on without me.
Beyond my shoulder, I create anti-masterpieces.
Sitting at my desk 90,000 dollars in debt
(it’s such a chocolate world)
wondering whether
that’s who I am.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Pick Up Your Own Damn Pieces
her eyes burn savage, her lips go thin,
the love that buffers this hard sweet life
clocks her on the chin, revealing merciless
glistening flesh, reduced to this, peeling away
the frame. we could destroy and rebuild
and never be safe again, he said, sadly—
but with a grin. that's just what he was,
a petulant fog, an itching phantom limb.
did she ever look back? there's no fucking way—
the door missed her ass by a mile. unwilling
to host any lingering ghosts, she fucked
that note sincerely, protecting her delicate
architecture with a drunken bombardier.
the love that buffers this hard sweet life
clocks her on the chin, revealing merciless
glistening flesh, reduced to this, peeling away
the frame. we could destroy and rebuild
and never be safe again, he said, sadly—
but with a grin. that's just what he was,
a petulant fog, an itching phantom limb.
did she ever look back? there's no fucking way—
the door missed her ass by a mile. unwilling
to host any lingering ghosts, she fucked
that note sincerely, protecting her delicate
architecture with a drunken bombardier.
Ol' Whatzername
Got a phone call from the captain says my ship is comin' in
but the phone is in the bathtub and the bathtub’s full of gin
livin on saltines,
sardines and day old
bacon grease
bet my bottom dollar on a
johnny walker neat
never took no pictures cause we never went nowhere
breathing in her pillow cause it smells like her hair
one-two split-tooth
smile like a clown
toe nails glowing red on the gas pedal
cranked on crank,
AC blow dry curls still adrip from the shower
eternal straight stretch whispers 95, 97, 110
she could stop traffic that girl
scene cleaners
pressure wash
bits of my dear
down drain, downstream
among catfish and eel.
raw deal
bum squeal
net worth
zilch.
final words was some shit about the bills
mama makin ground smashin muscle into bone
pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake
she ain't ever comin home
She taught me to sing
Sweet as hell. tongue
pokin' out when she did up her hair.
Looked at me
like the looks
I've seen people
with headphones
alone with what's in their head
(and her eyes were the deepest...)
morning and night
I call her name
I test her name.
embarrassed as hell
to inflect
the end of her name.
And then one day
you’ll never believe
I couldn’t tell a thing.
The curve of her neck?
Which side the tattoo?
(and her eyes were the deepest...)
Her eyes so green.
Her eyes were brown or blue?
but the phone is in the bathtub and the bathtub’s full of gin
livin on saltines,
sardines and day old
bacon grease
bet my bottom dollar on a
johnny walker neat
never took no pictures cause we never went nowhere
breathing in her pillow cause it smells like her hair
one-two split-tooth
smile like a clown
toe nails glowing red on the gas pedal
cranked on crank,
AC blow dry curls still adrip from the shower
eternal straight stretch whispers 95, 97, 110
she could stop traffic that girl
scene cleaners
pressure wash
bits of my dear
down drain, downstream
among catfish and eel.
raw deal
bum squeal
net worth
zilch.
final words was some shit about the bills
mama makin ground smashin muscle into bone
pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake
she ain't ever comin home
She taught me to sing
Sweet as hell. tongue
pokin' out when she did up her hair.
Looked at me
like the looks
I've seen people
with headphones
alone with what's in their head
(and her eyes were the deepest...)
morning and night
I call her name
I test her name.
embarrassed as hell
to inflect
the end of her name.
And then one day
you’ll never believe
I couldn’t tell a thing.
The curve of her neck?
Which side the tattoo?
(and her eyes were the deepest...)
Her eyes so green.
Her eyes were brown or blue?
Father & Son
The Father and I
get canonized huffing
mineral spirits.
We could teach benediction to the
Coin-trick Saint! he revelates to his palms, to
just shy of 75
aspirant
Brides of Christ who gather
afield kicking
serious shit-storms of doubt, dirt
and dance til they are spent,
lying in a heap,
translating the percussion of settling dust:
You
done
good,
one begins, then 3 and 10,
'til all harbor the same stimuli--
yet mine comes out like this?
My first and final vow:
I love you. In fact.
In fiction
get canonized huffing
mineral spirits.
We could teach benediction to the
Coin-trick Saint! he revelates to his palms, to
just shy of 75
aspirant
Brides of Christ who gather
afield kicking
serious shit-storms of doubt, dirt
and dance til they are spent,
lying in a heap,
translating the percussion of settling dust:
You
done
good,
one begins, then 3 and 10,
'til all harbor the same stimuli--
yet mine comes out like this?
My first and final vow:
I love you. In fact.
In fiction
The Old Business
you got to sing,
he whistled.
kiss the sunkist cement
come spring, he hummed.
When the hell everything get
so bright, he blinks.
so bright, such bold
minor chord
lamentations...
Remember?
When sweet trouble stuck to your boot,
gathered hard
and cracked
underfoot
on ashen pavement?
The signs are buckshot and conflict:
tea leaves & hard candy
shards
politely insist:
Songs were hopeful
then. men
who fit in
were recognized
when they arrived.
Music and food and your neighbors,
nothing was foreign to him.
People he never imagined:
strangers, demanding,
amplified tragedies, erect
flagpoles shrinking in the
ever-expanding radius.
Decisions pressing
flesh,
baring teeth,
smiling.
he whistled.
kiss the sunkist cement
come spring, he hummed.
When the hell everything get
so bright, he blinks.
so bright, such bold
minor chord
lamentations...
Remember?
When sweet trouble stuck to your boot,
gathered hard
and cracked
underfoot
on ashen pavement?
The signs are buckshot and conflict:
tea leaves & hard candy
shards
politely insist:
Songs were hopeful
then. men
who fit in
were recognized
when they arrived.
Music and food and your neighbors,
nothing was foreign to him.
People he never imagined:
strangers, demanding,
amplified tragedies, erect
flagpoles shrinking in the
ever-expanding radius.
Decisions pressing
flesh,
baring teeth,
smiling.
The Crack of Don
Banana split dreams
and directions to a gold mine
My sheets are
twistin' in the wind,
flap and snap
and fins and skin
big blown bellies on the clothesline.
Banana split sea, westerly
wind on the ass end.
In the water in the sink
brass monkeys tinkle and clink
canines rippin, drippin pink
flesh of over-ripened bovine.
Don's Lincoln Town Car
got as far as
Sharyland
then quit by the Dairy Queen Don
used to work
til when that jerk-off showed him the gun.
Was a Saturday black hole
before dinner dusk
rush buzzing on the radar, but
just him and Javier
and the
minute this guy jingles in
I thought, shit, this
is not going to be one of your normal transactions.
This kid's hunger went off menu,
which is a good in some. But,
he shoots a glance
to the white-hairs in the corner, tongue-probing
dip cones, and
says all twitchy:
gimme a large Big Red, large.
Fuck the DQ man, let him have the money.
Fuck this punk too, though
tapping the counter with the pants slung low--
Don playing pin the
finger on the magic key,
mumbling Castaneda incantations--
which,
when invoked (via gunmetal ting)
unbuckled "Belt Buster"
at the time,
Don's brutal,
conclusive
alter-ego
and directions to a gold mine
My sheets are
twistin' in the wind,
flap and snap
and fins and skin
big blown bellies on the clothesline.
Banana split sea, westerly
wind on the ass end.
In the water in the sink
brass monkeys tinkle and clink
canines rippin, drippin pink
flesh of over-ripened bovine.
Don's Lincoln Town Car
got as far as
Sharyland
then quit by the Dairy Queen Don
used to work
til when that jerk-off showed him the gun.
Was a Saturday black hole
before dinner dusk
rush buzzing on the radar, but
just him and Javier
and the
minute this guy jingles in
I thought, shit, this
is not going to be one of your normal transactions.
This kid's hunger went off menu,
which is a good in some. But,
he shoots a glance
to the white-hairs in the corner, tongue-probing
dip cones, and
says all twitchy:
gimme a large Big Red, large.
Fuck the DQ man, let him have the money.
Fuck this punk too, though
tapping the counter with the pants slung low--
Don playing pin the
finger on the magic key,
mumbling Castaneda incantations--
which,
when invoked (via gunmetal ting)
unbuckled "Belt Buster"
at the time,
Don's brutal,
conclusive
alter-ego
jackass
Walking to work
October sun punched face, circa waste
water puddles
reflect the occasional south Texas scrub,
above,
institutional green leaves
hang on withering to bits like tobacco.
natural patches of dead grasses
arm the neighborhood against tender feet.
From scorched earth
cocoa powder dirt
emerge searing flashes of my son,
my sleeping daughter.
daytime canines curve into their eyes
puncturing each perfect dream
October sun punched face, circa waste
water puddles
reflect the occasional south Texas scrub,
above,
institutional green leaves
hang on withering to bits like tobacco.
natural patches of dead grasses
arm the neighborhood against tender feet.
From scorched earth
cocoa powder dirt
emerge searing flashes of my son,
my sleeping daughter.
daytime canines curve into their eyes
puncturing each perfect dream
Duet Delusional
I’m honestly quite surprised by your appearance
You gave me every reason to believe…
That I was taller?
Well, no—but, that you were just,
different. The picture
you posted in no way even remotely resembles you...
Yeah well, it was taken a few years back.
No, but I mean it’s not even you. Not
even someone related to you...
Listen—
John...
Sure, o k, John. John?
Do you think you live in a vending machine? Is
what you want stuck in a coil? I mean,
you heard the quarters clink in the collector--
Who’s to say shit can’t change
without your consent?
Yeah?
well,
honey--
I get my first blowjob in the morning while
I’m shavin’ the hair off my face.
I sprinkle lightning bolts in my sneakers
I got aero-planes writin' my name.
10 thousand grams of protein
chug through my slick ass veins
as the clouds divide before me,
I roam the world 5 times in one day.
If the rhinoceros in my boxers
ever lets me get any sleep,
I'll raise my palms to the sky
and tan your milky hide
with a 21 spank salute--
Boom!
She said,
I'm wastin' time here
like a religion.
Wastin’ time,
all the time.
Wastin’ time,
doin’ the things
that I think
that I want
to really think about doin’.
Wastin’ time,
makin’ up dreams about scenes
that I see
me and you
actin like
we just met on the street.
Wastin’ time
searchin for gold
in black shadows of soul
puddled up at my feet.
You gave me every reason to believe…
That I was taller?
Well, no—but, that you were just,
different. The picture
you posted in no way even remotely resembles you...
Yeah well, it was taken a few years back.
No, but I mean it’s not even you. Not
even someone related to you...
Listen—
John...
Sure, o k, John. John?
Do you think you live in a vending machine? Is
what you want stuck in a coil? I mean,
you heard the quarters clink in the collector--
Who’s to say shit can’t change
without your consent?
Yeah?
well,
honey--
I get my first blowjob in the morning while
I’m shavin’ the hair off my face.
I sprinkle lightning bolts in my sneakers
I got aero-planes writin' my name.
10 thousand grams of protein
chug through my slick ass veins
as the clouds divide before me,
I roam the world 5 times in one day.
If the rhinoceros in my boxers
ever lets me get any sleep,
I'll raise my palms to the sky
and tan your milky hide
with a 21 spank salute--
Boom!
She said,
I'm wastin' time here
like a religion.
Wastin’ time,
all the time.
Wastin’ time,
doin’ the things
that I think
that I want
to really think about doin’.
Wastin’ time,
makin’ up dreams about scenes
that I see
me and you
actin like
we just met on the street.
Wastin’ time
searchin for gold
in black shadows of soul
puddled up at my feet.
3-Way
1. Picky. You have always been so picky. Pricky. Ha! Prick. No. But you know what I mean, right?
beat
I mean at first I took it as a sign of confidence? You were like a man, but not ashamed of it? But then, it's like a damn disease, an affliction. Like when you started doin my makeup for me, or when I "ruined" your car.
2. You totalled that car, and that was no fucking car, that was the remaining light in my soul. That you destroyed. Without remorse. And you, with 'Look at me! Not a scratch!' Not even a bruise. Unfuckingbelievable. And yes, I know, I'm supposed to be happy, because it was just a thing right? Or relieved, or something.
1. Asshole. I coulda died.
2. But you didn't. And that didn't stop you from gettin in my car did it? Like it's stopped you from doing every single other fucking thing in your life. A heartbeat's all you need to die, sweetie, slow or sudden. Take your pick.
beat.
You at least coulda broke your arm or something.
1. A jewel.
2. What?
1. That's what she looked like. That girl you had that thing with...
2. Oh God, this? How. What, what is the point of bringing this...
1. ...say a ruby, which is cliche I know, but her color, 'cause she was always flush--lifting those steel plates. She looked so damn healthy.
3. Well. I just think you two have made some excellent progress.
2. Dang it, come here Fluffy. Come sit by me. We don't ever touch anymore. That's what it is. Foreign bodies.
1. Ha!
2. You like that one? That's not even my best material.
1. Put it on me.
2. I'd like to try you on right about now.
1. Oh, Tiger Baby.
2. Mi Palomita
beat
Well, hey man, good luck. And listen. I mean, I don't know what I could possibly do for you, but I'm pretty damn resourceful. So call me if you ever need anything.
beat
I mean at first I took it as a sign of confidence? You were like a man, but not ashamed of it? But then, it's like a damn disease, an affliction. Like when you started doin my makeup for me, or when I "ruined" your car.
2. You totalled that car, and that was no fucking car, that was the remaining light in my soul. That you destroyed. Without remorse. And you, with 'Look at me! Not a scratch!' Not even a bruise. Unfuckingbelievable. And yes, I know, I'm supposed to be happy, because it was just a thing right? Or relieved, or something.
1. Asshole. I coulda died.
2. But you didn't. And that didn't stop you from gettin in my car did it? Like it's stopped you from doing every single other fucking thing in your life. A heartbeat's all you need to die, sweetie, slow or sudden. Take your pick.
beat.
You at least coulda broke your arm or something.
1. A jewel.
2. What?
1. That's what she looked like. That girl you had that thing with...
2. Oh God, this? How. What, what is the point of bringing this...
1. ...say a ruby, which is cliche I know, but her color, 'cause she was always flush--lifting those steel plates. She looked so damn healthy.
3. Well. I just think you two have made some excellent progress.
2. Dang it, come here Fluffy. Come sit by me. We don't ever touch anymore. That's what it is. Foreign bodies.
1. Ha!
2. You like that one? That's not even my best material.
1. Put it on me.
2. I'd like to try you on right about now.
1. Oh, Tiger Baby.
2. Mi Palomita
beat
Well, hey man, good luck. And listen. I mean, I don't know what I could possibly do for you, but I'm pretty damn resourceful. So call me if you ever need anything.
Roast Kid
I'm getting fatter
than a fat mad hatter
'cause I eat 10 cakes a day.
My belly's turning jelly,
my toes to sausages,
my eyeballs sinking in their sockets
and my lozenges
are full of sugar.
Sugar...
...full of sugar
in my boogers
gasoline in my spleen,
my marbles searching for the door
you know what I mean.
I meant that I am,
the King of Siam,
and my harem is 300 lovely girls,
who all have guppies,
they treat like puppies
that I will chop, chop, chop, chop, chop
up into chum.
And fill up slippy kiddie pools,
by the stinking bucketful
and dig up the cabrito when it's done,
done.
Done.
than a fat mad hatter
'cause I eat 10 cakes a day.
My belly's turning jelly,
my toes to sausages,
my eyeballs sinking in their sockets
and my lozenges
are full of sugar.
Sugar...
...full of sugar
in my boogers
gasoline in my spleen,
my marbles searching for the door
you know what I mean.
I meant that I am,
the King of Siam,
and my harem is 300 lovely girls,
who all have guppies,
they treat like puppies
that I will chop, chop, chop, chop, chop
up into chum.
And fill up slippy kiddie pools,
by the stinking bucketful
and dig up the cabrito when it's done,
done.
Done.
Oh, Henry
Thoreau slapped his friend, Emerson's
broad back, said,
Hey Ralphie boy,
I'm checkin' out.
I need a place to lay low,
whaddaya think?
Emerson said, Of course,
this land is your land.
And so the picture of Thoreau:
Freshly calloused fingers
gripping the shaft of Emerson's ax,
cleaving Walden logs.
Heaving a sigh from above,
tracing his length in a breath-frosted window,
Mrs. Emerson gently corrects herself.
Musing on the exchange rate
for just one minute alone with that Henry David...
Well!
broad back, said,
Hey Ralphie boy,
I'm checkin' out.
I need a place to lay low,
whaddaya think?
Emerson said, Of course,
this land is your land.
And so the picture of Thoreau:
Freshly calloused fingers
gripping the shaft of Emerson's ax,
cleaving Walden logs.
Heaving a sigh from above,
tracing his length in a breath-frosted window,
Mrs. Emerson gently corrects herself.
Musing on the exchange rate
for just one minute alone with that Henry David...
Well!
The Confession of Dan: An Ode to Fran
Oh Fran, Fran, Franny
I hear sizzle and you shimmy
off that silky piece of nothing you call a
nightie.
I hear a Mexiguatesalvadominican jumble of
Eat me's and Fuck you's and remember
the way they
pricked up like chastised school children when you ran the line.
Ah, hell Franny.
Well into the middle of my campaign for
best vintage Cadillac/coke addiction(critics choice!)
you step down, my running mate.
My recipes were strong enough to endure the split,
my spirit gently declined.
Witness the crumb's descent into gazing Valentina's dark cleavage,
dazzling flecks of cream gravy on Valentino's smooth brown chin.
Reach across the booth into the great
wild tenderness.
Damn, woman.
A proud and lonely heart once stood roost in this busted up cage.
I am not a different man. I ain't no different from the man you married.
I ain't ever completely believed you
either,
how you got that scar on your back.
Franny, I'm gettin' out. Fifty years is a long time.
I'll end up in the desert, wed to a saguaro.
Take it all. Consider this legal and binding.
It's just like falling asleep, ain't it?
I hear sizzle and you shimmy
off that silky piece of nothing you call a
nightie.
I hear a Mexiguatesalvadominican jumble of
Eat me's and Fuck you's and remember
the way they
pricked up like chastised school children when you ran the line.
Ah, hell Franny.
Well into the middle of my campaign for
best vintage Cadillac/coke addiction(critics choice!)
you step down, my running mate.
My recipes were strong enough to endure the split,
my spirit gently declined.
Witness the crumb's descent into gazing Valentina's dark cleavage,
dazzling flecks of cream gravy on Valentino's smooth brown chin.
Reach across the booth into the great
wild tenderness.
Damn, woman.
A proud and lonely heart once stood roost in this busted up cage.
I am not a different man. I ain't no different from the man you married.
I ain't ever completely believed you
either,
how you got that scar on your back.
Franny, I'm gettin' out. Fifty years is a long time.
I'll end up in the desert, wed to a saguaro.
Take it all. Consider this legal and binding.
It's just like falling asleep, ain't it?
For C. on Mother's Day
you are the one,
small,
right thing
in the middle of rage.
bone marrow bubbling
in a deep stock pot
pen scritch on notebook paper
Caravaggio's shadows
between note rest
The song came on
inspiring the man
to forge the fork
comes sliding out
outside your mouth
without
the bit of beef
which left a
tender
kiss
of grease
upon your juicy
upper lip. puh.
small,
right thing
in the middle of rage.
bone marrow bubbling
in a deep stock pot
pen scritch on notebook paper
Caravaggio's shadows
between note rest
The song came on
inspiring the man
to forge the fork
comes sliding out
outside your mouth
without
the bit of beef
which left a
tender
kiss
of grease
upon your juicy
upper lip. puh.
Poolside
In the dank metal cavern of Pendleton Pool
towels sop heavy
thick adolescent mist
swollen fibers
drunken inhibition
floating
we need not speak
revelations
this chest to chest
Testing strange glass
Clothes shed,
nose to nose,
craving a
companion to navigate
faith
grandma cocks her head to
her own
children of her children
emerge glistening, swarming
her lawn chair to
wetly peck her cheek.
pruned hands liberate trunks from the cracks of asses
she swats them off
one by one
with quarters they plunge
into the soda machine
towels sop heavy
thick adolescent mist
swollen fibers
drunken inhibition
floating
we need not speak
revelations
this chest to chest
Testing strange glass
Clothes shed,
nose to nose,
craving a
companion to navigate
faith
grandma cocks her head to
her own
children of her children
emerge glistening, swarming
her lawn chair to
wetly peck her cheek.
pruned hands liberate trunks from the cracks of asses
she swats them off
one by one
with quarters they plunge
into the soda machine
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