Sorrow
does not appear merely when
something terrible occurs.
It is what fills the soul
when there is an absence
of a particular joy.
Sometimes
I just want someone to run
their fingers through my hair,
because, God knows,
it’s been so long since I slept well
and a warm thigh will always trump a cold pillow.
I saw it in a dream
or maybe on the internet.
The year I die is 2055.
I have forty two years left.
There are many things I need to do before then.
I want to travel around the world,
set foot on every continent, including Antarctica,
I’ll make naked snow angels, my body unfurled.
I will get cold undeniably,
but no one can stop me, not even the penguins.
They’ll waddle by knowing they have nothing to fear
for I have nothing growing on me resembling a dark grey fin.
Though this poem may seem odd,
full of gibberish and silly lines,
at least I did one of the things I wanted to do before I die.
I wrote about both penguins and my nudity and made it rhyme.
After he has chewed the scenery,
After he has sucked on a cigarette,
Out comes the gum.
Pop
Into his mouth it goes.
She’ll be there soon.
He awaits what comes next,
Kiss
Think back now,
Careful with those teeth
That’s not the way the teat likes to be treated
Suck
No, further back
He misses popsicles and lollipops and
Gum in the shape of cigarettes
Puff
No, back,
Mother’s milk, when sour
Cannot nourish the
Mouth
You’re a wet cigarette
gone limp in the rain.
I’m a dud pack of matches
devoid of all flame.
You and I shall inherit this planet
since we are scared and meek.
When the strong kill each other with hatchets
we’ll hide in our holes for a week.
We’ll meet on the ground above,
as the last people left on the earth.
It’ll be impossible for us to fall in love
because we’re both afraid of getting hurt.
This is how the world ends
with two lonely people
who cannot be friends
or shelve their damaged egos.
The species will die off with a whimper and a sigh,
and I’ll stroke your hair, begging you not to cry.
I’m sorry I said those things about your weight
I was just upset you ate the last of the cornflakes.
You’re a wet cigarette
Gone limp in the rain
I’m a dud pack of matches
Devoid of all flame.
I’m only here for this moment.
Soon
others
will be clamoring for your attention.
But I can’t let myself wander
into future scenarios where I am excluded
and my existence isn’t considered.
I have you all to myself for this space of time
which could be measured by the numbers on your clock,
but for what purpose?
Later, in my dulled, damaged memories,
hours and minutes won’t matter.
Only the photo strip of still lives will remain and affect me.
I have you all to myself for this space of time
because I am all you have directly in front of you.
It is my good fortune
that you have switched to tunnel vision and
mine are the only approaching headlights you’re focused on.
I drive at a mild pace;
eager to reach you,
my destination,
but fully aware
of the danger
of rushing through an experience that
will in end in the ironic,
illuminating rays
of the rising sun.
These are not Halcyon days and nights
for those wearing exposed hearts
stitched clumsily to their arms.
They should be afraid
or at least alert;
put up your guard!
I say.
The hospital volunteer in her vermilion stripes and exhibitionist skirt,
offers to help the ailing and hapless but even worse
our body’s defenses are low.
She infects this vulnerable man,
an unprotected soldier sans armor
caught in her barbed wire,
destitute.
Like a dentist, she comes in grinning, porcelain, smiling innocence
brandishing tools and clamps and other things that are good for my health.
And if I’m a good boy, here’s a sweet, except
my molars shatter every time
they bite down on your
hard candy,
doctor.
Another role, another face, she fills the shoes gracefully, a glass slipper
forms around her foot, molten glass never burning the skin.
Instead the clear membrane embraces it, thankful to have been chosen.
Until the day the scuffs and the dullness
become embarrassing
and she kicks it off
shattering it.
At last, a waitress comes around to deliver the check,
and the price is hefty, perhaps too high to pay.
She knocks over a bottle of wine yet
her charm is disarming so
I don’t mind the stain.
It all trickles down
to the bottom.
Tonight the moon looks like a flashlight peeking out from a closet bulging with grey suits.
Tonight the moon looks like a night light obscured by cobwebs in spooled loops.
Tonight the moon looks like a pupil less eye judging our every move.
Tonight the moon looks like the only clear spot on a magnificent bruise.
Tomorrow the sun will shine like the second hand cufflinks on a poor man’s suit.
Tomorrow the sun will burn like not being kept in the loop.
Tomorrow the sun will warm like an awkward first kiss when you make your move.
Tomorrow the sun will heal all but a damaged heart’s bruise.
Your secret name is Karintha
known only to me.
Like Toomer’s nymph
who grew into a woman wild with freedom
and made the men lascivious.
You are
irresistible.
You are free
in a world you feel trapped by.
The souls of your feet never touch the ground
as you dance through the air.
Thick fingers paw at the hem of your dress.
You are
elusive.
You attack with a smile
targeting only me.
I have married you fifty times
in my dreams, in yours, and raised a family with you by my side.
But I am like all the rest of those men who were enamored.
I am
mistaken.
(An Ode to Love, Leftovers, and William Carlos Williams)
I awoke today
to leftovers of
your fried mac and cheese
in my fridge
I’m sure
you left it accidentally
hoping
to eat it later
I apologize
for devouring
your tempting
and tasty food
Her eyes were
two tiny suns,
blazing blue.
Her eyelids, when lifted,
were open blinds
brightening darkened rooms.
Like an atom bomb
she shattered my windows
and peeled off my skin.
I walked into her light
ignoring the smell of cooking flesh
maintaining a toothy, skeletal grin.
Stupid Children 