On the Roof

I’m simply walking around. Slowly keeping low. I am whistle clean. There is no poop on my deck. I gulp the drink the dude bought. Right away funny feel.

A lounge lizard darts a tongue into my ear. Licks the back of my lizard brain. When I look down, trying to bare my gettings, the floor has been retiled in reptiles. 

Crocodiles dial nine-one-one, need help with their prey; snakes gulp their own tails; turtles snap at once-a-jubilee opportunity; gila monsters stand not on ceremony; horny toads hop into the booth me and my lizard brain occupy. 

Next time imagine a time way before your times tables. Retreat at least that far to elude the tongue of a lounge lizard. Retreat in order to escape monster spit up the rear. 

So, to sew her lips, I warble to my double, “Lady, how you slay me, now I lay me down to death, knocked out of me the breath, heart by a red ball hair beat. You slay me, lady, with your blade so high and your piece so cute, surely you they would not electrocute?” 

Next day – or is it Tuesday – wake to arrows broken over the welcome mat to the apartment I’m still remembering might be mine. 

Love Abides

She moves like a bleak marionette.
Flowers wither at her feet.
Her perfume is known as Regret.
It smells like rotting meat.

Yet I love her like the sunrise,
like the sunset and the moon—
then again she loves me too
and says so with her eyes.

Look at us kids, playing house!
The puppet and the mouse.
And for those who dare hurl stones
at us, she will fuck them up.

The Mad Conductor

That time I woke up on the train
The passengers were just piles of gore
I get out & don’t recognize where I am
Empty – I yell out – nothing
The doors locked, then
An announcement
Next train arriving
It doesn’t slow down, it speeds up
Smashes into the corpse filled car
The doors open & bodies spill out
All the trains are due at the same time
I see lights coming from the next train
In the drivers seat, a glimpse of the conductor
His torn into a smile, his clothes rags
Trains approach from every side
All driven by the same mad conductor  

Another Morning

Another morning
of another day.
Another Monday 
or Tuesday
or Anyday;
all the same all the same
with a dose of coffee
and a stream of sunlight;
a dollop of ringing telephone
and a dash of meeting somebody 
in order to exchange something
for something else.

Maybe it will be
a more exciting day at that
and not the same –
a hurricane approaches
or the neighbor is embroiled in a scandal,
another neighbor can’t wait to say.
Those days are better
because they are less the same
but they are still tedious, flawed
and full of people
or else the memory of people

but this is
just another 
morning;
just another day.
A groan and a piss;
a dose of coffee;
The solicitor’s call
goes to voicemail.
The blinds stay shut
and I shut my eyes,
just to feel blind,
then I open them again:
sad the day is the same,
relieved I’m still alone in it.

Slut Shaming

It was a wild one.
That much I know.
Now, first light of morning,
unclear how we arrived
in these unfamiliar surroundings,
clear on what happened though,
clearer still on the consequences
that await,
trying to be quiet,
I say out loud,
“You fucking slut,”
as I wash my face,
avoiding the mirror. 

Legs Like Snakes

her long legs
stretched out
over the couch
like 2 big snakes
ready to coil,
choke me good
just looking at her
I already can’t breathe

The Moon Don’t Care

This old house— 
a rattle of bones— 
settles in  
for the night— 
the lights 
of its eyes 
dimmed. 
Graying roof tiles 
kiss, tentatively, 
twilight’s gloved hand 
in silent communion. 
Her pale eye  
peeks  
past kaleidoscopes 
of scattered sun 
and browns 
of rustling leaves, 
indifferent 
to the subtle advances 
of worn rooftops 
and old men.

***

(Originally published at The Milk House)

The Spit that Fell From the Clouds 

When your wife has been ill for 2 years
and no doctor in the land can put a name to it
when she cries in bed each night
and flinches when you touch her 
and all you can do is remember 
how young and happy she once was
it is difficult to give a shit
that they’re fighting over sky-fairies in Tal Afar 
or that demonstrators are up in arms in Barcelona 
or that somebody made hot cakes on Facebook
or that glassy-eyed poets are passing mouth-gas on Spotify
bitching about Nietzsche 
with their backdrop bookshelves testifying 
to their talent and mental acuity 
or that the motorcycle rally is next weekend
or that the car is filthy
from the spit that fell from the clouds
or that jam has bits of fruit in it unlike jelly
or that a pubescent loop-job dropped artillery 
in a Missoula classroom  
killing eleven
or that the monarchs are fluttering again
on the motherfucking wind.

Tell Me A Story

You ask me to tell you a story.
Instead I will blow up a balloon,
Puffing my words into it
Until it is full.

I will not tie up the end.
I will hold that part
Between my fingers,
Up against your ear.
Slowly relaxing my grip.

The air will come rushing out
Along with all the sounds,
Vowels and consonants
Forming syllables
And phrases.

Listen closely
As the wind whispers
All the tales
I could ever wish to tell.

Don’t mind the scent
Of rubber and latex.
The stink is part
Of the price you have to pay
For being entertained this way.

The Tourist

So here I am wandering strange streets
In another strange town.  Lost the tour bus,
So I started drinking.  Got a bottle of what?
From some beverage shop full of foreigners.
No, locals.  Here, for sure, I’m the foreigner.
Whatever this is, it’s kickin’ my ass big time.
Where is Rick Steves when you need him?
Now dark night and drizzling.  Stepped?  No,
Staggered into a cathedral.  Yeah, mega
House of God.  Big enough for basketball.
I’d give Him a drink but, no tellin’ what all
He’d do liquored up.  Fire from the sky,
Another plague, zero out all bank accounts,
Make black white and white black, move
Our assholes to the middle of the forehead.
Whoa, better stop before He gets ideas.