Grass and Leaves
Tightened shoes, cupcakes, balloons, straight teeth,
Chests built of salt-water baggage
Your egg, my seeds,
Running as though just grass and leaves
Empty cups, gossip, napkins, crossed arms,
Bellies filled with forgotten feelings
Your hope, my hope,
Laughing as though just games and dope
Dusty shelves, bowties, lipstick, shamed looks,
Eyes set on dark-colored pillows
Your dreams, my dreams,
Hiding as though just lies and screams
Mirrored glass, wrinkles, cigars, old smoke,
Faces sewn with decomposed theories
Your egg, my seeds,
Running as though just grass and leaves
The Old Man And His Poodle
You, the old man, you
walk with leash in hand
and 'round your neck
collar bones you feed to your
curly haired imbecile,
not like you,
the knower of names.
You reduce all things, except
your leash, which, woven
of wires and bushy tales, you
grip tightly, you must.
You pretend not to feel
the withering joints in your right hand,
manicured with lotionism, but human,
not like her.
She looks down at you,
and then back up
toward the trail, the open field,
knowing, like you, nothing,
except that you
can't walk forever.
Ode To Vanity
The honey locust hands belie me,
smidgens twirling toward the dirt,
gripped by gravity but hopeful,
a crescendo of dreams.
They cover their faces, reciting
absurdities into the wind,
too far for the nearest ear,
echoing off pipes of sewage.
What awaits is not theirs,
a dimension coming to life
beside their own but envious,
inward thorns pointing out
and diamond-laced. The
optimal tools for cutting
eyes and faces are here devised,
along with shattered goblets.
Twirling minds are stained
with red sap smears and
black on white, always.
The light is so decisive.
Cracks in the pipeline birth.
Your fuming innards and
helplessly running gutter canals
transport foreign revelations.
Twirls turn to freefalls
toward toxic mud puddles.
The dreamhead is dead,
And we don't have any extras.
