The cat is offended
By the spool of trimmer string
Left on the table after yardwork
By the ballpoint pen
Left on the counter after writing a grocery list
By the letter
Left on the doorside table after reading it
Most of all by the thing that lurks behind him
Taunting, flicking
The thing that won’t be caught
Though he twirls until
He is dizzy and spent
– or –
What I Work On Instead Of Sleeping
Our fodder, you are tin(sel) heaven
Hollywood be thy name.
Thy King Kong come
Thy reel be done
Unerred, as is VanHalen.
Give us this day
Our aching head
And forgive us our deads
As we forgive our deaders.
Lead us not into sensation
But deliver us from sequels
For thine is the kin-dom
And the pairs
And the gory forever.
Ahem.
The strawberries have gone bad. The milk
expired yesterday. In the back,
an orange with a sweater of green.
When did we become so careless?
And not just with the contents of our fridge,
but the dust animals hiding behind the doors
and beneath the bed, letting the garage
shed paint in thumb-sized flakes
for the whole neighborhood to see?
Look, where there once were flower gardens,
cornflower and hollyhocks with their scarlet ears —
they’ve grown weary of our conversations
about work crises and carry-out gratuities,
have vacated to more fertile climes,
leaving us with weeds and rogue red lettuce.
We promised each other a better life,
but lately it’s been nettles and mold.
We need to clean up our act —
run the vacuum over our bad habits.
Slap a fresh coat of paint on our lives.
Pull the stale out by the root.
Remember when it was all fresh and new —
we couldn’t keep our hands still! —
the kitchen counters gleamed
and the dinner table didn’t sag
beneath the weight of elbows?
Let us off to the hidden quarry
where the water is cool and quenching,
cleansing and deep. Then
you can slip out of your wrinkled skin,
my love, and I will slip out of mine.
Maybe you’re not hungry
Drink some water
Maybe you’re not lost
Just
Check your phone
Maybe you’re not lonely
Go someplace where
You’re not only
Just
A dude
Who’s not afraid
To be alone.
At approximately 7:15 this evening
I became human again.
All day long my heart was held hostage
in an alien interdimensional spaceship.
I barely remember those zany gray guys
and their large black almond-shaped eyes.
I don’t know if they stole my sperm
or poked me in weird places.
But no worries! I’m back! My breath
flows easy with the rhythm of a song.
I can’t account for my missing hours
but at the end of the day who can?
winter porch no more
than a pause from inclement nip,
morphs to summer’s
sleeping room
for an airless postbellum
farmhouse.
mere mosquito nets
afford southern breezes
for urban grandkids
used to artic drafts
star view
night hawks
cloud imagination
moon set
before oblivion
