Living in this yellow box filled with aging trinkets
A lonely guy trying to get by just hasn't sealed the link yet
Bout a cup of milk left in the fridge and God forbid I drink it
A shaggy dog; that ***** hog, why can't they smell the stink yet?
The junk comes barreling through the door so fast that you can blink it
There's no more room for gloom and doom, but let's fit one more inkjet
They just got rid of dinnerware,  a silver and a pink set
So now to hoard an ancient sword, a blender and a mink set
Five garbage bags of someone's clothes, the sixth one's in the sink, wet
With lots of cans and pots and pans, we'll reach the jagged brink yet
They're trying to let go, said there ain't no space to think yet
They're workin hard to raise the bar, ain't  worked out all the kinks yet

Pressed for time and low on space
****** I need to get out of this place...

Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over  his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.

It's strange
the way a cluster of neurons in your head reacting to some particular stimulus can make your heart feel like hamburger meat
As if there really is a hole in there, and everyone can see right through it.
What kind of strange fiction allowed debilitating pain to come from a mere firing sinapse?
How unfitting, that such an incomprehensibly small and silent event begets the destruction of worlds.
You'd think
that with the breaking of a heart should come some ceremony
Smashing of a gong, ringing bells, the flight of a thousand crows or even the sound of breaking glass.
But we're left with heavy dreams that tug at our consciousness and even heavier moments upon waking and remembering that you have a hole there, that everyone can see right through
that didn't even warrant shattering dinnerware.

There is nowhere to hold this, and it is heavy.

We drink coffee in white, square mugs
on the fifth ***** step.
I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach.
You do not care about hydration.
You are covered in so much paint
you look like Matisse in a fender-******.
You look sore all the way down to your fingers.

The bed in the opposite room won't be yours,
but could be.

I lope around nauseous on the mornings
I don't work. I light candles that jump
with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark
unholy early.
I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there,
the newly living.
The loud neighbour,
the considerate neighbour,
the ******* dogs.

I open the bedside drawer.
No Gideon hotel bibles.
Condoms, picture frames,
instructions for a washing machine.
No Bibles.

Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy -
or in my pockets.
And sometimes I drag it behind me,
like wedding cans on a bachelor's car,
filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware,
threaded cotton of towels
too often used without washing
and wine bottle bones.

And somebody once told me not to paint a
room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime,
and I could **** well sleep in here,
and sometimes do.

The bright, yellow paint is chipping.
The  ivy vines are climbing the walls.
The war had started and it was abandoned.
A once beautiful house neglected in fear.

The windows are broken
and the door is hanging by one hinge.
A tornado had come through here.
A tornado of men, guns and turmoil.

Clothes were strewn across the house
Antiques were shattered on the floor.
The war had killed the beauty of this house,
but had enhanced the tortures of its story
The story of a peaceful family.

A table flipped and dinnerware on the ground.
A teenage boy dead on the floor.
****** handprints on the walls and bullet holes in the stairs.
A broken railing and a dead man at the top.
Shot gun shells and holes in the destroyed door.
A woman lay dead by the edge of a cradle.
The mothers blood slicked down the edge of the bassinet
A blood soaked mattress
And a baby that lay unmoving with a torn and ****** onesie.

The destruction of this war is terrifying
and the World War 2 veteran can’t erase the scenes from his mind.
They stick with him as he ages until the day he joins the peaceful family
in the land of the dead.

everyone is so afraid.
they are shakin gand trembli ngand un stable

everyone is so afraid that someone will say it.
they eat their food and kiss their wives
and dot their i's but they are TERRIFIED

everyone is so afraid that someone will point it out.
that there is something wrong with the dinnerware

it cuts at their fingers - white plates turned red
the teapot so far gone that the smell
of chamomile stains the tablecloth
they are stifled - watching in horror as their forks split porcelain to
pieces; and more; and more; and  more  . . .  splintering into obscurity

the china is Cracked. and everyone knows

In what chair was patience seated before we met?
At the long table where acquainted faces were eager to eat
we sat at each end, like king and queen and let the lines of empty dinnerware
and the cattail centerpiece divide our once linked gazes.
But I felt that wary stare peeking between leaves,
your gleaming mouth moving in vehement whisper, cursing yourself.
I see everything, but I pretend to know nothing as I place napkin in my lap,
looking past the guests beside me, into the kitchen door window.
You observe with intent, you assume my watch is bent to our friends.
Dinner isn’t ready, and everyone is restless.
I am quiet, and apologetic for the fellow who chose this venue,
because I know he probably feels no remorse, and only anger,
for the waitstaff spinning around the other tables.
Compassion isn’t a cell worth refueling for this company,
with large brains and demands, but space and time consuming bodies.
Our cups are dusty as our carpeted souls.
I see my fingerprints all over yours, through the constructed cold and cattail,
Clean, round spaces where I really knew
I touched you.
A lonely fool perked up, finally and thank goodness, drink is to be served.
How else would we last while our bellies rumbled with distaste and depravity?
I watched her pick her scabs and toss a pound of flesh to a neighboring plate.
It was yours.
You were too busy glaring at me with loan shark’s interest.
I am but a merchant who didn’t know what to sell and where to sell it,
but closed business when my ship found asylum on an island.
My visage no longer appetizer, you eat the poison on your plate.
It was an inerasable memory that the smell of cooked meat and spices interrupted.
But everyone was too drunk to remember we were hungry.
And I was too sad to order anything, anyway.
So I waited, glancing down, moved my napkin to wipe my lipstick off,
and on my lap, I saw,
Patience in between my knees, on my royal wood grained seat.
I look up, and once again, our eyes meet.

Tea Leaves

The house seemed so small.
Yet here in my memory as a child
so very long ago it was always huge.
I walk through the rooms .
Familiar as they always were.

I can almost hear your voice
Calling me to the table.
Or to get ready for bed.

The packing had almost finished
Everything in boxes that would
never be opened again.

In your old kitchen I pack the
dinnerware that had had carried
our sustenance until I was an adult.
Piece by piece
I carefully place them in the box.

Then I find your tea cup
The one you used faithfully
each day of your life.
It still had a single tea leaf
Dried and on the rim.
Where your lips had been.

That is when the grief hit me
as it had never done before.

let us speak in tones, hushed,
of mountains and molehills.
benchmarked by
tape measures,
underscored, with concerned apprehension.

for now it is time,
to masticate the elephant
and the roaring lion too.
with silver plated forks and knifes undulled with use.
slap down your grievance on the noritake dinnerware
and partition the proportion, dissect the angst,
and delicately place the rage, between your bloodless lips.
to sit,
ashlike on your scathing tongue.
we will drink,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however,
humdrum and malign.

and when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather.
and the king of beasts,
but a tattered rug,
upon your floor.

we shall cry jubilee, jubilee,
cry freedom.
our indenture is done.
emancipation now has come.
and we will run, we will run.


it is then,
we will be,
looking at life,
with kaleidescope eyes.
fitted with lenses of love, joy,   and liberty, crystalized within.

we will be,
dancing the fandango,
with robust, rebellious gusto
and singing glory, hallelujah riffs.

and o' there will be laughter
and big broad smiles.
and o' there will be hugging
and much comfort shared.
and the door will be open,
for anyone to come sit
and chatter on for a while.
heaven on earth,
heaven on earth.

I think about
the veil most
of us
live
under.  

the one
that seeks to
distance us
from
the ugly,

brutal,

severe directness

of the cold scales
of survival.

-we are not so far
removed.

   the 9 to 5
    the supermarkets
     the advertisements
      the entertainment
       the gas stations
        the toilets
         the dinnerware
          the morning talk shows
           the sidewalks
            the right angles
             the hot showers
              the doors
               the locks on the doors
                ...
it all adds
to the illusion
of
exception.

they're all
jumping
monkeys clamoring
to distract
and
avert.

this man-made
cacophony is
a powerful
hypnotic
and we
succumb
to our own
enchantments
quite easily.


                                                     I lost
                                                sight of  the
                                            sun below the  h
                                             orizon.   I had t
                                               oo many que
stions to ask before the earth came between us.  and now the night
                                reminds me that she never left.
                                            mute         music
                                            magic       mother
                                                          ­I
                                                        see
   ­                                                    you

Thank you for getting angry when I didn’t have enough pans to make your eggs
The one thing I didn’t offer for breakfast
I told you over and over again I wouldn’t eat
Still you scowled at my lack of ingredients or kitchen tools
Refused to cook dinner with me
It gave me a reason to leave
Girls stay on bad dates because we’re convinced you’re the good guy
Just misguided
Love will change you, you’ll be better
But you stood in my kitchen and tried to take my roommate’s things and I thought
“I have the right to leave you.”

If independence is my cardinal sin,
I’ll walk right up to Satan and tell him to please leave his shoes by the door
I go to bed early and I shower at night
With time, we can pull him from the bargaining stage of grief
The only hell I could ever be left in is a weekend with man who expects my body as a welcome gift
Into my apartment
Wants me to buy new plates because a table setting for one isn’t good enough for two
As if you live at my kitchen table
Both nights I didn’t eat, was sick to my stomach
Afraid that you might see me settle down and construct an opportunity
I’m not sorry for my lack of dinnerware
You ate off the plate that holds my toast each morning near my diet coke
You participated in the ritualism that constructs me an independent woman
The body you will not lay hands on today, owner of the bed you will not sleep in
I did not let you remove that from me
If I had bought plates for you, you may have come back.

let us speak in tones.....
                                hushed......
of mountains and molehills. 
benchmarked by tape measures,
underscored, with
concerned....
                     apprehension.

for now it is time,
to masticate the elephant
and the roaring lion too.
with silver plated forks
and knifes undulled....
                                 with use.

slap down your....
                            grievance
on the noritake dinnerware
and partition....
                       the proportion,

dissect the angst,
and delicately place,
the rage,
between your bloodless lips. 
to sit ashlike on your.....        
                       scathing tongue.

we will drink....
                             once more,
one last time, one sip of,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however, humdrum...
                            and malign.

and then,when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather. 

and the king of beasts,
now, but a tattered rug....
                     upon your floor.

we shall cry....
                          jubilee, jubilee, cry freedom. 
our indenture is finally done.
emancipation now has come.

and we will run.......
                           we will run.

it is then,we will be.....
                          looking at life, 
with kaleidescope eyes.
fitted with lenses of love, joy,  
and liberty, crystalized.....      
                                        within.

we will be,dancing......
                            the fandango,
with robust, rebellious gusto
and singing glory....
                         hallelujah riffs.

and o' there will be......
laughter and big broad      
                                       smiles.

and o' there will be ....
                                   hugging

and much comfort shared.

and the door will be ...
                                         open...

for anyone......

to come sit and chatter...
                          on for a while.

heaven on earth.......
                    heaven on earth...

Cloaked in my blankets,
I hear a fulmination of sounds.
The sounds of children weeping,
And of bombs capturing the ground.
I covered my ears and secured my eyes
Only to find that this time around,
These sounds were not inside my mind.

I released my uniformity of quilt,
And stared upon an empty shelf.
I imagined a place of prestige and luxury,
And the greedy percentage of interminable wealth.
I envisioned families with crystallized patios and polished rooftops
With clothing that glistens like gold and parquet floors that exert possessive pride.
Where a vast mass of appliances lie,
And sculptures of dinnerware are overflown.
But my eyes began to water when a flag was waved with an infinity sign,
And stacks of green paper were boastfully thrown.
And way far beneath their intangible table,
I began to feel a vibration of sounds.
The sounds of the powerless praying for just a couple of crumbs,
As the families fed their colossal crowns.

Love . . .
A clear mind knows its desperate need
all would it give away for Love

Life: our bodies, our houses, our work
are all what makes the table and its dinnerware
Set for us to feast on Love
(don’t enjoy the fork too much, it’s only a vehicle for Love)
The Chef of Love is God, and with his very essence feeds us
Only the best he does prepare
though only appetizers have we yet eaten
Only tasted just have we, before death,
of our feast of Love

An apple is our love from mother
The cinnamon? It’s father’s
The sugar is our sibling laughter
And roses come from daughter
the cheese is Love from son
the salt is every friend
And wheat comes from our lover
But each of these ingredients
burst forth of his words uttered
From the Chef himself
Himself the feast of Love

Your wild announcement made my **** turn black,
diarrhea is a welcomed release.
Your cheap knock of billboards don't even sell crack to a ******.
The term wolf in sheep's clothing can't apply when your carcass is decomposed to the stench beyond revival stage you're at.
Vultures are setting down their dinnerware

Life is in the air
and
so too everywhere
weather you choose
or not
to see it
life will surely be there
it's also in your hair
present at the fair
it's stuck in traffic on the interstate
and cleaning dinnerware

it's living solemnly
or
free without a care

Tea Leaves

The house seemed so small.
Yet here in my memory as a child
so very long ago it was always huge.
I walk through the rooms .
Familiar as they always were.

I can almost hear your voice
Calling me to the table.
Or to get ready for bed.

The packing had almost finished
Everything in boxes that would
never be opened again.

In your old kitchen I pack the
dinnerware that had had carried
our sustenance until I was an adult.
Piece by piece
I carefully place them in the box.

Then I find your old china tea cup
The one you used faithfully
each day of your life.
It still had a single tealeaf
Dried and on the rim.
Where your lips had been.

That is when the grief hit me
as it had never done before