Slacking feels
Oh.
So.
Good.
Until I realize
Everyone else
Is doing it too
And nothing
Gets done
And I have
Nothing to
Look at and
Nothing to
Read if you
Get my drift

When asked about
sandwiches
I replied
that I
had not the time
nor frame of mind
to do a single bit
of word-smithing

But seeing as
that frame of mind
has
(supposedly)
been found,
I’ll meintion, again,
sandwiches,
and quote:

“Best when
dressed with mustard,
fried with oil,
and shared with friends”

addendum:

“Especially
at One-Aye-Emm”

Lines tracing lines in brittle paths
Mountains worn smooth and small as grain
Crumbling between fretted fingers
Tumbling to miniature spires
Amid a canvas of green and salt

Delicate dimples curving portraits
Memories shape shift and scuttle
Leaping down shallow ravines
Bracing for cascading bubbles
To overflow and wash away
Refreshing a pallet never ending

When drawing
in the study
it becomes the drawing room
im-promp-tu

And the music room
when someone grabs the
a-cous-tic
and drags it in by
the strings

So now there’s a
drawing-music room
and some jackass
is writing
some po
-e
-try
just to -really-
complicate things

…but, I suppose,

everyone is studying.

Teeth

Your teeth are
glistening

Your teeth are
smiling through your
smile at me

Dripping, nearly
drooling all their own

Please
Don’t
Bite
Too
Hard

Your teeth
are smiling through
your smile at me

Smile at me
Please,
It
Makes
The
Bite
Less
Hard

Rain falls a miracle
the learned ones green or old wheeze sneeze a drop against my psyche,
the old friend, throbbing incoherent nibbling on the Rorschach test
and I see
lightnings and thunders livening the night
bats and butterflies colorful and dark
music dancing through her
myself eaten up by a spinach quiche.

In my new old apartment, German roaches roam unconquered
some days, I wake up with a few rounded up beneath my belly,
little freeloading bastards,
how about a bottle of red? maybe some pinto beans instead
to cover up the uneasiness born out of our relationship –
my kicking maternal instinct.
But motherhood is a many-splendored thing, for
tomorrow, the little darlings will die.
The Landlady promised.

Tonight, the little one is by the window,
still and fragile
the rain tap dance against the glass
I can taste the metal
How we all fit, big small discontinued
scattered and invisible.
one phone call, the universe’s landlady
nice and demure will send out her control team
and off the pest go. Welcome the spinach!

I want to
spend the night with you
on someone else’s furniture
and wake up early
because we both have work in the morning

and I want to drive down the highway
on fumes
and I want to drive down the country road
on the same fumes

I want to
sit and listen to you
almost but not quite
crying
over anything,
everything,
that makes you almost
but not quite
cry

And I want to
FIGHT
I mean I really want to
FIGHT
for anything there is
to fight for

and I want to drive down the highway
on fumes
and I want to drive down the country road
on the same fumes

Though I’m really happy for them
and I’m constantly excited by
the thought of infinite potential
I can only hope that everything
goes wrong

It’ll be that much more
satisfying
when they finally
pull everything
together.

Going back to bed
Is so much better
Than falling asleep in the first place

this morning the sun rose again on my
internet defying my loss of hope
giving me opportunity to enter again
into the nether-poetry-sphere to
dump on you five days of pent up
brilliance

but all my poems
of thoughts and lost socks
seems drab compared to the
color of the bits and bytes
on my glorious connected

world.

Impetuously, the sun seems
to enjoy it’s early rising
with what appears, to me, to be
absolutely
no consideration

Impetuously, I return to
my ever-too-slight-of-a-slumber
with the hopes that
perhaps,
impetuously,
the sun may decide
to hide a while
before it rises again

heaven is so far away
from earth
and why?
it takes so much
effort to get to
the sky
it ruins your
high
you want to go up
but they say
nigh
your persistence
run dry
your bed is
a sty
do we ever leave
earth?
is there something
to find?
some place in
your mind
where all words are
kind?
or is
any way out just
a lie.

It’s the simple things
like
sipping cold milk from a
Collins
or
knowing what a Collins
even is.

Like an open stage format
at a local bar
with
a man and his
5-string
and a man
and his 6-string
and two (count ’em two)
saxophones.

It’s
one more
cliche
free-verse
po-em
written
at the
end of
a long
, long
, day.

but mostly,
it’s
the cold milk
in a Collins

i want to ask you
if you’d like to light
a fire underneath
i am a match itching to
burn
i can promise you a blaze
this wildfire would
take its toll and
roll like a catalyst
through our arteries
and if your world is
too quiet just let me
know