Sunday, September 23, 2007

And death shall have no dominion

What brave flower
-- and Molly is nude in her bower
-- and she is shampooing in the shower.
I am Molly and you can kiss my hollow or my holly.

What fair weather
-- as long as you and I fare together
-- you take the low road and I will take a sweater --
I am Molly and you can kiss me if it makes you jolly.

What pussy blooms
-- like jasmine smells in rooms
-- where you smell me and tell me

What cock will crow
-- like smoke or like a black crow
-- where I feel lucky because you're so fucky.

Friday, September 21, 2007

I Wonder

I'm tired like the undershirt dried on high heat, worn to fray around the collar
and worn while painting the wooden boat this summer in the basement that filled with acrid epoxy stench on the humid August night when nothing dried -- not even the sweat on our arms.

Today, some things are very hard. A number five on a card, a thank you note not written for the gift too generous for words, conversation, lessons to be planned, books to be read in order to keep just one running foot ahead of the bolder about to roar over me.

Is it forgivable to live unashamed of your dreadful, human self if your life is now solid and loving and full of entitled decency? Especially, if you are a possum who can play dead and can barely see, who can sniff out a lie, and find a family in the dark.

Lately Molly’s been busy doing possum-y things in the dark. Dark things in cities where people are dark and there are dark cars and strangers leave garbage next to Molly on the subway as if it is hers. Garbage should be explored in a possum-y way. Headlights beckon. My eyes look bright and surprising when you come up on them quickly in the dark.

Stay with me. I’m tired. I have questions.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Where were you?

Twin Squirt
the war of Afgan desire rages on

1. Tom Brocaw

Recalling the falling, our failed mission,
no admission of contrition,
no immediate deaths, not not stressed
(or jest) just unimpressed or tested.

2. You Porn

Tonight it’s shooters, hooters
mechanical put-it-to-you’s.
Then or when, if (someone needed) yenned
a defense against, might portend the (your) end.

Monday, September 03, 2007

School rhymes with rule, fool, tool, drool

Every year it's the same. Labor Day is blue Monday.

"When is she expecting? "Labor Day," her husband said.

Due diligence means I am driving my car into the past. Vermont fades in the rear-view mirror like the image of Eurydice abandoned by Orpheus.

The dirty secret of death is it stinks. There's nothing admirable in failure. I'm back and I'm alive.

You walk down the corridors of the school where you were once a citizen and now you are invisible.

But your tits remain alert in your sweater and you walk out the door when classes end and a new season of revisionist history begins.

And then you know how it feels when the fools with the limited tools talk about you with envy on their breath like salami.

But I'm back and I'm alive and I'm going to work on Tuesday.