The Seventeen like laughter-clatter, ArmaLite refuse echoes up the hall. A shrill metal bird has been paid to sing arson and lure us to fire. Riddled, we watch as others prod, fiddle with our holes, feel for the thin veil of prayer the dosh demands be woven –ever retroactively–into our skin. Let their fingers burn.Continue reading “The Seventeen”
Sick of tradition, Frosty tosses his corn cob pipe into the fire. As he does, a bit of his arm gets over-warm and sloughs off as slush on the bearskin rug. “Typical,” Frosty mutters. He shuffles back a few feet. He would sweat nervously if he could afford it, but the Californian winter, ever shortContinue reading “A Snowman Scene”
Sunset sets conceptually. Daydeath dawns. Decay writ large, writ regular, routine withering in the way we end the day. Stop connoting soft death under constructed beauty: lithe ghosts that float over fields of miribilis jalapa, four o’clock flowers that flex out sweet sweat and hold the night in thrall. Make it explicit: we blink, darkContinue reading “Game ____ Match”
364-58 The sky has called in sick. The clouds (grey) hesitate. Watch: they float, crawl, dawdle. Nearly as many NOs as DAYs.
He milks the weeds of his home-town and pours the broth in a ceramic bowl, bitter, drop by drop , like harvesting syrup, that slow serenade of nearly-not-a-liquid, from the forests that spring up out of composting teddybears and trendy teen magazines ’bout music. His mind is a confetti of neon wristbands– concerts, clubs, conventions–andContinue reading “Older”
Athena, long-limbed and armor-clad, is curled up in the gashapon of my skull– kicking, unborn babe, I can feel her toes , the bone cracking (mine, not hers (her muscles are mightier ; mine shred and quiver me; I am the dragon-roar of her aegis; my face is laden with the bent brow of herContinue reading “Headache”
Coat hangers dissolve as the years pass and no one recalls where to hang their hats.
Whistling down the alleyway on a Tuesday afternoon while the rain pours down and down like notes without a tune, he strolls with shadows ‘cross his eyes and a jacket made of sleep, and in each pocket jostling are heaps of tasty treats. Not candies; no, no lollypops, no sugar-laden fare, but music, words, andContinue reading “an other”
Platypus jowls : next time someone yells out in frustration and I’m around, “Platypus jowls.” I’ll say it, is what I mean, as a defense mechanism, not for me but for society (so grand, so grand); just blurt out “Platypus jowls,” and then they’ll look at me, bemused, and I’ll just be there in myContinue reading “Platypus Jowls”
There once were some cows eating grass and their stomachs produced lots of gas. Now, believe it or not, the planet’s real hot and I don’t think that we’re gonna last.