Stoppage
The trees rustle and shake just the same as you did with your disease I stay outside quiet and waiting watch the unkempt days wind and unwind the dull of metals set aside called inside themselves. Are you currently in a place watching the sings of the gale force wind the slapping over its banks, water I keep a vestige of you at last finally, in me, in loose leaf journals. I can feel you the sun sometimes warms the flowers, the leaves, though still.
Read MoreSomeone Goes Over Old Love Letters
someone forgets for a moment, thinks of going next door to borrow — then falls apart. Someone still expects a woman with strong arms coming back with groceries and a joke. Some one waits for a black Honda, thinks of the smell of coffee. In another house, someone starts to make lunch but there’s no one to make lunch for. She can’t stop seeing the shapes tumbling from the sky. Someone sets up an alter with incense and a drawing. Her child stops before it, says “come eat dinner...
Read MoreHouse to House
A salesman going door to door, selling bottled rain and sniffed fingers, selling angel-scented handkerchiefs. A salesman in an ill-fitting suit, selling love-powder and paper aqualungs. Broken manhole covers. A dent in a bucket. Bio-degradable motion detectors. The uninvited, leaning on your front door’s bell, hauling a black satchel, carrying snake-hips and vapourous handles. Hair dye for the dead. A swastika of smoking ashes. Who’s selling two absolutes for a dollar, the semi-divine, and storm windows too – lest yon tempest offend...
Read MoreMy Magic Newlywed Neighbors
I still have not spoken to them. I try, but they’re gone before my wave. A magician’s act of flowers and mirrors. The wife appears out one upstairs window, laughing, disappears, an invisible bird singing, then flows out another, dreaming her hair down. One day, a pink pillow case flaps its lewd humorous tongue at me, and at night strange notes leap from their chimney to the moon. In the morning, the husband exits in a rush, one shoe half off, then returns, bags overflowing with wine bottles and celery. I keep waiting for him to race out a trap door, his wife...
Read MoreOr Musical Instruments Like the Guillotine…
Most people go to sleep at night. My insomnia screams like a leaf-blower of blinding blizzard hiding in the Siberian cupboard’s rattling snowplow. It grabs my keys then races along the freeway in a retro shoot ‘um up Western then shouts a loud bugaloo down Broadway using lip-liner sirens. It’s made of steel tacks mixed in the nine inch nails and rattles every ordinary tin roof scattering fluffy pillow feathers. It has no smitten eye piece but a starry sledge hammer of acid rock amplifier plugged into my tumbling dice. And when it really gets angry it smashes my glasses of...
Read MoreShopping
A nickel’s worth of starshine please, porter, and make it snappy A pound of roses for m’lady’s hair. A half-case of chewed-over indecision. I prefer shopping via wistful teleportation. I like it when the stores are closed, the window-dresser in the arms of dreaming, the security guard asleep in his chair. It’s midnight, ghost-shoppers pressing their faces up against the glass, in the thrall of wish-fulfillment. Need and want fight it out in aisle nine. The spirit of greed is rifling the coffers; the least predictable of bargain-hunters. Here’s a toy for your unborn children. Warm...
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