Three Squares

Day had broken.

The last eggs of empire were cooked and  the debate was settled:

No one cared anymore what came first only what came last

Served on a plate sunny side up  with bacon, toast and a side of hash browns,

OJ & coffee (two sugars)

 

Lunch was naked as a homoerotic dream

 

Dinner was to be goose

But we had lost the password to its homing device

And such a brouhaha ensued over caps sensitivity

You could have mistaken the row for an academic debate

But the template for that had been lost, too.

 

So now we were in the dark and once well-fed.

But as the sun had ascended and then dropped suddenly

(as if of its own accord)

We knew morning would bring

Pain in our bellies

 

And this pain would be different from that pain

But then again pain is pain all the same.

I just wish we had found that goose.

Politics Get Me Down

Like a laundromat on fire

Our ears are wider apart

Than ever under the dome of heaven,  He said

Same difference I replied

 

She had a way of turning a phrase

Like screwing a Phillips head screw into a plank of balsa wood.

And his obsequiousness was like a dead vaudeville act.

They were polar opposites back to back ready to draw

 

At the first light of dawn.

Seconds past.

We ate third helpings

And drank fifths.

 

But I kept circling back

To the opening analogy,

The initial salvo which was, in fact,

The same difference.

Amusing Musings on the Muse

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I felt so like a grown up

Eating sushi, talking art, falling in love,

Slowly slyly bumping into one another

On a small southern city street

Knowing poetry will come from it.

 

What to write?

How to write?

When to write?

Does it matter

Knowing poetry will come from it?

 

The red okra and zucchini,

The bell peppers and squash

Are beyond harvesting

But the carpenter bees don’t mind

Knowing poetry will come from it.

 

And all my jabbering distracted you

From making that Indian recipe

Like you wanted to with more tomatoes

To keep it from drying out which it did without them

Knowing poetry will come from it.

 

We’re crazy, sad with life.

It goes on and on like house after house in a gentrified mill town;

How it can begin and end beginning and ending like the unexpected us

We were waiting for all the while

Knowing, just knowing, poetry will come from it.

Wiggle Room

Could we shed our shadows

Like snakes their skins?

I’m just asking

For like the millionth last time.

 

Even the tightest nets

Have escape routes.

The secret is to sit still

Until its time you know?

 

Hard as it may be

Tough as it may be

Impossible as it is

It can still be done.

 

Let the opening slide over you

Like a weak halo then just wiggle.

Now look at me standing here. 

On the other side of this poem.

Circle

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Manifestos, prejudice and gleaming sedans

Are the Holy Trinity of the post-revolutionary diaspora.

There’s an interesting word: diaspora.

We’ve been fucking each other brown

Since we slithered out of the soup

And while the sons of the revolution ride on horseback

The daughters of the revolution stay at home

Tending babies and bank accounts

And now what motivates me

To walk down dark halls

Leads others to pick up the gun.

Its got the weight to change history.

The caliber of weaponized words.

We hate each other.

Here, take my hand,

I’ll show you how…

Nuts

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We wake up in the world

Alone unraveling like a

Nut; its hard shell a frozen

Smile or better or worse a dead

 

Animal steam rising from its open

Maw and tongue lolling like a red carpet

Gala; three rear-end collisions on the frontage road

Make the news. I grab for your hand

 

But lose it in a boating accident and

Offer a velvet glove instead cuckoo

Clocks in every finger asking not for

Whom the cuckoos cluck instead

 

Who clucks for the cuckoos?

The me’s and you’s cracking our nuts

On the Formica tabletops of yesteryear

With shiny ballpeen hammers.