does hamburger meat stick together because it is still searching for the ghost of it's bones?
in college, i worked in a factory.
i trudged to work every monday morning at five thirty and put on gloves
to plunge into the sticky mess of beef that i weighed and clipped and submerged in.
the meat sticks together and bleeds into the same palm, which is my own.
i am livestock.
i am a nonsensical sticky mass of fat that is being pulled apart by another.
although i am trying to pull myself back together,
the bones i clung to were yours.

no taste.

still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.

and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,

for once.

i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.

what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.

no taste.

(a.m.)

The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.

I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner.  The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ******. The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.

A literate piece of poetic license,

The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.

The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.  
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under  
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.

you can swim.
but you wont get there.
you can try.
but you wont reach it.
my hands will turn,
and
stroke
and hit,
and
my legs- my legs
will pound like ribbons,
stretching out-
unending.

and then it will end,
no longer will I go.
and bone will turn to thread
and muscle to
heat.

and from the fatigue i will find it
reach it.

every bone a body, every muscle
a life
and everything....
everything water.
water stroking through water
combing
and
twining
to
one
water so intense
in
water so sleek-
so aware of every stroke
every turn
and every hit.

you can try.
but you can never stay
there.

a vine suffocates a tree
wrapped around it screaming
PLEASE!
don't leave me

dear god, please don't leave me

the tree goes limp
and its bark starts to crack
as the vine tightens her grip
till her veins turn black

why won't you stay? why are you leaving me?

the vine must not falter
for if she does
the tree will grow strong and
leave her in the dust

don't go don't leave me please don't leave me

but as the tree chokes,
it thrashes her off
and down will come baby,
cradle and all.

I remember when all our guns were sticks
I remember when pine cones were grenades
I remember when we always got back up
And war was just a game we played

I get lost in your kiss
                   Yet feel at home on your **lips