English isn’t my first language:
It is the glossolalia of improving my mile.
Isn’t that what the man said?
Well, then, that always seems like always a
Man and woman alike can get tonguetwisted
Colloquially and in the finest farthest reaches
Of underpasses, townhomes and high-rises.
Eventually we trip over our tongues when the red light goes on.
By then, it’s time to get off anyways…
So knuckle under and buckle up, buttercup.
I’ll hold the steak knife to your supple chin
And by pray by dints, the glint on the blade
Blinds us all.
Respect the dynamic.
Our empire can’t be erected
On the backs of other’s babies.
Again. Can it?
Oh, and speaking of erections
Ladies, maybe if you let us touch your bodies
Every once or twice or three times
We’d let you have a say
About your plumbing or that place
Down there wherever the stork
Deposits the twinkle in God’s eye.
Alls I’m saying is it’s tough being white.
Hard to be WHITE. The WHITER THE HARDER.
It’s almost, almost like trying
To not there at all.
My father has been reincarnated as a dog.
There is no physical or character resemblance.
It’s just that, well,
What is life but waiting
For form to allow
The soul to flourish?
My father used to say,
I could tell you what to do.
But you’re going to do what you want to do anyway.
And now he has returned
As an Australian Shepherd/ Kelpie mix
With a boundless personality
Who doesn’t smoke or drink
Or lament about my babci
Putting raisins in the rice pudding.
She loves unconditionally.
I make sure she’s fed and goes out,
Gets treats and belly rubs, too.
Such are the dynamics of the universe.
Waiting for the form
To allow the soul to flourish
A slack of stones
Metastasizes like boulders
Beneath your shoulder
Blades where angel’s
Wings sprout one silly
Cilia at a time.
Time. Can I borrow some?
I need a ride, too,
Don’t worry, just out to the
Quarry. How much junk
You got in your trunk?
It’s just that, lately,
I’ve been fearing
I’ll be gone till
Only the mountain remains.
Gravity’s a bitch
For aspiring seraphim
And cherubim alike
Though what passes for
Difference these days
Can’t be pried apart
By a feather
No matter how small
Or how silly.
You got that ride
The engine turns over
But the belts whine
When its cold and wet.
Winter’s not over yet
Especially in the morning
But its only dew
On the windshield
Rather than frost.
The engine turns over
But the heat blows cold
And sometimes you don’t have patience
For this car, this job, this life.
The engine turns over.
But one day it won’t.
Tap tap tap. Click click click.
Or nothing at all.
Writing can be like carving an ice sculpture in Hell
Or sculpting a thimble out of a granite boulder with your bare hand.
Other times you nap
I went down to the crossroads
To catch a cross-town bus.
There was swinging with great violence
In a benevolent cacophony.
But the empty pleading eyes
And the emptier pleading hands
Only seemed to say sadly
You have to sit through the whole presentation
In order to get a round-trip ticket.
But there’s coffee and doughnuts.
Except the coffee’s bad
And the doughnuts were gone by 9.
Wetting the tip of my pencil to gauge the wind
I remembered an ember can travel miles
Before being extinguished so I asked my neighbor,
Hey buddy, you got a cigarette?