My quill touches down
And spills my life
in scratches

And that white hole
Quadrangular in every way
Open to Mexico outside

Perspective, as it will
Makes triangles that
Really aren't there

Maybe it’s like they say,
When my hopeful face asks
¿Que onda?

And the answer is still:

*Ni cuadrada ni redonda

A random nighttime thought,
something you throw up on the web
at three o’clock in the morning, knowing
knowing you should have waited for the gray of dawn
or even longer

But the truth is,
I’ve got a bone to pick.
I can’t remember the details,
but let’s just get on with it
and fill the blanks in later.
I mean, it’s a little much
to demand particulars
at this hour.

In any case,
here’s the beef
Or at least a snapshot
of its hindquarters
as it goes its bovine way,
without so much
as a thought
to the feelings of others.

It’s gone now,
swallowed
by a gulp of moon
and rattle of buck brush.

But I can still see it in there,
peeking out at me,
waiting for me to nod off.

Sardonic smirk of cow
on its skinny white face.

There it is again
My rampant, purple verse
Just because she dropped
A silken, wanton stanza

Like a maiden would
A handkerchief
At a picnic
Or a ball

No no I say
The others are watching still
And her urgent
breathless whisper

No it’s OK, they’re all asleep
Just quietly
But watch the door

And so we madly
Claw the buttons
Reckless
Off each other’s prose

Touching across
The half-lit void
Of six thousand kilobytes

Or as many black miles
of Atlantic waves
Cresting over
The bones of lovers lost

And as we at last
Lay sweating there,
Spent and lost
and found

A lock of her hair
Loosed by our play
Tumbles suddenly down

To touch the curve
Of her smile

Oh my.