POEM: Breakfast

Was the white color of a sand palm Its beauty etched out of hunger that spiraled Within our nostrils & lingered among the walls of Prehistoric stomach linings grumbling Thunder under the radar, below anyone’s notice. Aroma had the weight of bacon grease, buoyed Only by the floating gin-scent of waffles grazing blue air as if the Buddha guided it. There was not a prayer hunger was its own prayer, white & hidden In the sopping sounds of bread, in the swirling & Lopping, the jewelry clink of china each Eye turned downward toward the dark coffee Keeping its secrets to the bottom of each cup. Silence served up the breakfast that day The fear of the hunt now abated, Civilized men returned, who tamed the pagan night - Whiskers fell away & axes dulled - the sallow Sound of a “howdy” bellowed in gunshot exchange.

POEM: I Hate The Fourth of July

And not for the obvious reasons, Not because of its tribalism I understand tribalism & not because of the red-white & blue clashing color scheme I love mixing contrasting colors I love wearing the flag as underwear just to make a statement. I hate the fourth because of its expectations, because the sun rises after nightfall because the cloudy night means rain because it unrolls in front of you without asking because it wants you to be its slave to light the sparkler & be glad you’re free & I love freedom god I do but I love reflection. & there is not a whiff among the gunpowder This mirrorless holiday posits nothing to take with me into the next day Expands nothing within me to remember the dead, this limp shrimp, left out too long for the party guests, when the cocktail sauce has been licked clean, like rubber rimming the glass rim in a prayerful way to get anything out of it. For the first time in weeks my head has unbuckled Its contents which are strewn before me like Christmas Morning toys that need assembly. I say I said it because I said I said it it but it was my head, oh my head dead dead dead my head, it was lead lead lead it was I could not create any two images that did not belong In a song together: or Thomas Kincade painting and any living room Or like wood and a leg, like Corona and lime – see what I mean? Unable to sew together any two unlike thoughts, reverse polarized Magnets like the polar ice of north and south – only reversed So they would repel rather than attract. The day is a broken bicylce with deflated wheels, with crying rims, with A rusted pick comb chain that can squeeze oil out of thick air and cure Boils that are a sure sign of the end of the world. Which will explode like those fucking fireworks, those decimal points Of noise that scratches at every square inch of quiet exclaiming, “You know the drill, don’t be such a kill joy.” And not for the obvious reasons, Not because of its tribalism I understand tribalism & not because of the red-white & blue clashing color scheme I love mixing contrasting colors I love wearing the flag as underwear just to make a statement. I hate the fourth because of its expectations, because the sun rises after nightfall because the cloudy night means rain because it unrolls in front of you without asking because it wants you to be its slave to light the sparkler & be glad you’re free & I love freedom god I do but I love reflection. & there is not a whiff among the gunpowder This mirrorless holiday posits nothing to take with me into the next day Expands nothing within me to remember the dead, this limp shrimp, left out too long for the party guests, when the cocktail sauce has been licked clean, like rubber rimming the glass rim in a prayerful way to get anything out of it. For the first time in weeks my head has unbuckled Its contents which are strewn before me like Christmas Morning toys that need assembly. I say I said it because I said I said it it but it was my head, oh my head dead dead dead my head, it was lead lead lead it was I could not create any two images that did not belong In a song together: or Thomas Kincade painting and any living room Or like wood and a leg, like Corona and lime – see what I mean? Unable to sew together any two unlike thoughts, reverse polarized Magnets like the polar ice of north and south – only reversed So they would repel rather than attract. The day is a broken bicylce with deflated wheels, with crying rims, with A rusted pick comb chain that can squeeze oil out of thick air and cure Boils that are a sure sign of the end of the world. Which will explode like those fucking fireworks, those decimal points Of noise that scratches at every square inch of quiet exclaiming, “You know the drill, don’t be such a kill joy.”