A tractor trailer whose ramp was used

as a slide for a fair, was parked on the

street.

Its Fifties signage read: Rapid Slide.

Azalea Pink, Forest Blue, Vanilla White

outlined its lettering.

Holding up its right to advertise a range

of feeling.

By a familiarity that never arrives--

waiting around to appear like it belongs.

It was chance nostalgia under a grey sky,

no longer wondering at screaming

children.

Awe shucks--there's Tater walking like
a duck on a highwire to Apple Bees.
Taken by the hand--dressed like an
unembodied expression, thrown together
not to be naked.
Layers notwithstanding.
Tater was holding his hand, not sure if it
was her own.
Tater was making a go of it--leaving a
slug's salty death on his palm.
Tater was getting so wet her inner thighs
glazed one another.
Conversation was natural enough to feel
like a muted reprieve, intimating loftier themes.
Comments on random homes were not
about worth, but more about auras which
translated to aesthetical judgements.
As Tater & he tempered the material world thru their cross-read dynamic.
Seated at a particular window-booth, as
per his eccentric placement for food ingestion.
A booth lit so bright, one could perceive
the emotions of dust motes.
Tater promptly excused herself to the
bathroom--where she admittedly cleaned
him from between her legs.
Tater took to the booth again, considerately propping herself up.
Then the pendant lamps followed her
mood like a bird of prey across the sun,
when it was directed outside the window
by her gaze.
As Tater offered that it was the day her
ex's mother passed.
He couldn't help feeling that it was put out there, as if a nun ripped through grace to get to appetizers.

The stock fire of

biding whispers can't

speak of Truth--

which never takes

the path of least

resistance.

It takes everything

with it.

Jezebel purposely loses the little girl she
chaperones.
Taking great pleasure in watching her
face become stiff with desperation.
Lunging from concealment, scolding:
'Why are you always doing that?!'
So a confused cruelty can match up tears.
Jezebel "lost touch" with daddy for the
equivalent of a life sentence, & blamed it
on her ex.
Let bedridden daddy lay in raccoon ****, as the confidences of a forest kept him company well over a decade.
Jezebel wondered why daddy didn't share
a box of chocolate when they finally
caught up.
Jezebel once said her ex looked at her like
a little boy across the room, that she
wasn't his mommy--that neediness was a
turnoff.
Which became Jezebel's twisted leverage,
her revenge on daddy.
Even placing a quote at the bottom of one of her poems, that celebrated the
breaking of a stoic (referencing her ex).
As she initiated an affair.
All stemming from the hardy stead of an
eighties photograph, a little girl kept at
bay with a dolly.
Right before Jezebel became daddy's
supposed power grab.
Sat in front of enormous plates of pasta
she had to finish, forced to separate
portion from proportion.
"Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through."
Are you Jezebel, really?
As you seek to avenge that photograph
through men, pose them for that power
grab.
Jezebel knows better now, right Jezzy?

An apocalypse has

always been

the anticipation of one.

It's how we reveal ourselves.

There are people petty enough

to cut the cord of a lamp when

throwing it away, so someone

else can't use it.

Now imagine the same kind of

person seeing the world go on

without them.

A storm is more than a

diffused gathering.

Its deteriorating conditions

occur way before weather.

It tortures tension with its

own fever pitch, like a fool

with room to grow.

A storm potent enough to be

G*d's blind spot.