Time in a queen’s single slough

The one time, I’d give up time–twice,
as fast as chlorophyll leaves fall
to the ground: blood. Oranges coupled with bitters,
the saving grace: incoherent post-midnight mumblings of the past
day passing, air calms, (eupnea)
Leviathan to break free, locked up in this Loch
Lethargy desiring, to dote its anti-dote, anticipating
the smearing of oil, and the anointed,
return the plastic clamshell, tearing away,
thermoformed around a thermometer’s rising crescent,
carmine colored by parasitic spirits leaving,
into veins cautiously cauterizing
a brand. New. Return to each single second
is not difficult to imagine place to serve,
time in a queen’s single slough, tossing,
turning slowly-recalling at once,
upon a time.

Pandora: the search for a siren

The search for a siren,
the perfect song,
to hold and
to squeeze all along
she silently sings,
bought for a harem,
that would shame Salt Lake–
even Solomon.
She’ll concubine your mind,
with the touch of a note
and the sound of a mime.

Dilation and extraction

(or I’ll never be half a football field of nerves)

A cell for a sitcom’s length,
in a cell, a miniature galaxy
pregnant with possibility,
alien with big black eyes waiting . . .
for the vacuum, of space is not
my home, I leave my feeble cells to
my mom in my will to
fight off disease for decades.

Flush at my own funeral, medical waste:
somatic septic sewer cells of
fetus mixing with fecal matter, or
dioxins in the air incinerating lungs
of pets and actual children–that wouldn’t be Green-
Pieces: umbilical, ambivalent, paraxial, personal.
A Gorey Inconvenient Truth and Choice: about warming in an oven
already too full for responsibility to try, try,
-mester the strength to ultra a sound. . .

I was mistaken (or that pain was post-orgasmic marriage glue)

Oh, to be a rational Epicurist! A sun spotless mind-cleaner (than)
a Pope for one more franchise will burn my body by a Steak, ‘n
Shake a SRI index fund’s pointy finger, at my 401-Kilo-calories
it reads on the fast food prospectus–just ’cause a prophet didn’t write it
doesn’t mean it’s untrue, Mo’ and mo’ years, the more I choose
beside my Jesus burger, I need more media, more YouTube
feeding tube is not enough!–need mail on phone, music on TV,
hybrid corn, a fructose I.V., a fourth meal of midnight tacos
drive-thru lines of closed eyes show ads on clothes and signs,
other’s behinds walking right to left, left to righteousness, the risk
worth taking this half field of nerves and flipping coins to kick
or be kicked on the other cheek bones protected by dead bolts,
car doors, live wires, meds, and noise canceling headphones ring
interrupting disrupting sighs: our stones, diarrhea, and UTI’s.

Blue and gray battle tunes

Blue and gray battle on line, on screen,
battles of bands, lines after lines sing-
a-long shuffling in anything but civil sighs,
fat lady’s tongue’s been pulled by Gitmo guys,
water / smorgas / boarding / ear popping/budding / flying today
alone in the night sky, all the Stars’ songs on display
cloud the view of divine ear-piecing silence.
yes, eat! the Apple, the pod, the seed, the Tree, since
Steve sounds like Eve to man in a hormonal haze,
yes, the Tree of Knowledge speaks lectures on history,
converses in college-ese, can be a cantata in box beige,
“chicken in every pot,” eternal cacophonous symphony.

There is no animal

There is no animal
except in the coal
powering this magnetic platter
only minerals in this production
seduction on plates of
power, porn, and politics:
creativity on a shoestring of abstract bits and
pieces spinning around, around
for there is no memory of before, random
access from any phone, wall, lap:
shuffling forward, backwards, waiting
as a vegetable, unmoving,
for the next quest for new

Pommelled fruit

Back up against a tree,
golden foliage shelters the curves,
freckled islands, a desert
of smooth sand, gripped by palms
soaked in the sweet, salty sweat of a summer night
squeezed of the juice from a fallen fruit.

What if boot camp was what it was all about

the pendulum swings and
college slides
down the bunk bed post,
debunked of passion,
penny loafers, worn, on ice rolling
credits shower mortarboards
the newly commissioned officers
grow beards in battle
and salute the retail mercenaries
and baristas in berets

Will they love me if I comment?

I will love if she comments (so many)
times and sights un-seen,
climbing mountains and sipping beers Flickr before my eye
and ewe sit behind a webbed and woolen curtain
following, descending, my stumbling Bloc,
stares into a liquid crystal reflection,
for nuclear arms are easier to hug than bloggers.

God had a sense of humor

God had a sense
of humor that he didn’t share with His angels
entertaining Adam and Eve as they created Seth.
Laughter was heard on a wedding night
between the pain and the pleasure:
ingredients for a sticky sauce
that adheres family portraits and
slippery noodles to a single, circular wall.