Poems

She takes a big pinch of dough
and bakes it into a sensuous loaf.
She looks at me, winks,
puts the bread on the cooling rack,
slices it with utmost tenderness, spreads
gooseberry jam on both heels. There
is no dogma in her hints,
slight nudges only. Her body
is a Corpus Christi
in tight leggings (vermillion
exposing the curves of a million 
desires). The orbed fruit
stings my tongue with its sour
whip, the wheated host helps
the glob slide down my gullet.
Swallowing again is hard to do,
I close my eyes and fight off
an ugly grimace. when I open up,
she’s flung her arm out 
the window with the birds’ share
and now turns and smiles
with a loose ease that says
take it or leave it

I know this car like
I know my body
(some days not at all)
mostly the distance
between the mental gear
that rotates down
and the true surface
that makes contact
with pedal. My dad
would say, is this really
the one you want to go out on?
As opposed to, in his mind,
a 1976 F-100. I will not make it
so obvious for people. Who I
am, what my body is. Last
month somebody shattered
the rear passenger window
and took only a stuffed tiger
from my childhood. That is
seriously fucked up,
everyone said. Yes,
and why did it take me
an hour of picking glass
out of the dirt to notice
that it was gone?

The Cenotaph to Poetry’s Memory:

Biggots see maggots in humans resting, and yet more land to survey.

This is an ordinary day
starting with a hopeful 
attitude of anticipation.

I am delving into
the cupboards of my mind 
and daring to open cans
or boxes filled with 
shredded golden wheats
of happiness or tribulations
in hopes of aiding
my awakened hunger
and help nourish
my thoughts into maturity.

The effort to improve
only increases
my appetite for greater portions
and I find myself pulling 
ever larger quantities of foodstuff
from my brain until I am covered
with the Jell-O and sugar substitute,
both satisfyingly sweet
but, alas, my reward for the day.

I surrender to the sweetness.
I.e. it’s just an ordinary day.

It’s been a good month.
Lots of good poetry. Good
bye, friends. Til next time.

Blindfolded with a tube of blood. 
I tried to glue the seemingly broken pieces back together. 
It made me sick to my stomach. 

Pale as the moon in the night sky, 
with my heart burned by the afternoon sun. 
Dehydrated and slowly dying,  
thinking things would never change for the better. 

22 months  
95 weeks 
669 days 
Time teaches you valuable lessons. 

I stopped waiting for you. 

The funny thing about damaged people, 
is that you love them even more knowing they’re not perfect.
My beautiful China doll never broke,
he was only picking up some glue to repair himself. 

I recovered, and so did he.

Science says it takes about 200 hours
Being together with someone
To become a true friend

Some books are hard to let go
Friends left on a shelf
For so many years

Old shoes have served so well
Walking companions weathered through time
Yet their tongues cannot talk

Reach out to another
At any store
In line at the P.O.

In a minute or two
One common theme
Makes an instant 200 hour friend

Many thanks to all my new and yet to be new friends on Lexpomo. This is such a great place to be… and craft our written work. Keep the candle lit and take care all!

Strong   

as a full-grown bull
no flaccid flesh only bulge
through loose fitting pants & t-shirts

spoons and fork handles bend
when he touches them even tines bow
like I do to keep things smooth

he bends over in the garden
pulls weeds yet never bends
to pick up a mess on an indoor floor

unyielding to wishful begs
to quit maligning utensils
I hide a few for me to use

but if I forget he’ll make sure
I know he used my fork and spoon
by bending them too