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.
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.
Pretty models: the contraceptive of truth
I want some ugly (just a little, please–on the side)
but I guess we have a lot of–of makeover shows,
which just goes to show the need for:
an equal opportunity leer of leg hair and some
lips to drip of metaphors and intellectual orgasms,
a mouth to keep me masticating my pens up and down,
and some hands to remove these synthetic condos
that prevent my copulation with truth
She reads road signs (in love with potential)
time is not what seniors have, I think
of classroom teaching
not wild, kinky sex when gazing
into the telescope of time
and those eyes,
I draw lines connecting now and potential
hopefully parallel to I:
fitting seventeen sides into an eighteen sided hole
and eighteen into
nein* teen, because I’m an adult.
My Mount Olympia
When the lint on the invoice envelope’s edge, looks like a man running for you,
I want a mother, I’ve always said, to hold me and melt me into her breast
for the heat rocks me to sleep
as if I could do anything but rest
bordered in your arms
you bat away the bees
around you that swarm
to taste this ambrosia
that never leaves me starved
The night after
The dial-tone returned, and I lied silently down
re-associating us into singular pronouns,
surely, I’ll wake from what my subconscious’s unwound,
for yet no tear or murmuring of sound,
but this phone’s clock blinks only three here,
maturity or just callousness as I fear?
Can’t help but call grace, mother–
forgiven, madness today, forgiving madness another,
forcing resentment resolved
by persons entirely uninvolved,
waiting for our critics critiquing,
sick of “but so sweet and cute”– as if comforting?!
and rehearsing witnessing words of an evangelist,
cramming faith into a one minute gist.
The night after–kettle corn is popping,
adhering to uncle’s doc’s rule of no butter sopping.
Launching kernels into the air, I catch 22:
if I hate or love, I consume you.
If you must consume me to live alone, again
Then, eat and let the rest of our lives begin.
The sadness
The urge
the tube top
the water
the beer
the muscles
alone
the dreams
the pool
the pain
the regret
alone