We sit three stools away and can not talk
bold enough to understand
one another.

She moves to the seat next to me and asks
if my bacon is crisp.  I say more
or less—want a bite?

There is a tattoo of a cross on her forehead.
My cousin Beryl done that to me when
I was 12, horsin’ around, he was 19
and no good.

She goes to *** or powder her tattoo; I pay
my bill and walk outside under a sky
so blue I want to cry.

Come and sit your white collar consumerism
and freeze dried favors next to my
blue lesbian coffee table toes
I need a rest from all those vertigo verbs
and Spiderman action adjectives
Those home run stadium songs
that signal my miracle
You can help me with my career materials
and teach me how to tap your labyrinth
of time and space tower
We can play like we are best friends
Peeking through the window of our
oh my god neighbors just for kicks
and practice what we thought we saw
If you’ll loan me some vowels I’ll
share my amoeba salad with you
We are both about as lost as
two ***** in tall grass without each other

Written by Sara Fielder © June 2015

If ever
I get too old to laugh
**** me

                   By Phil Roberts

I realize  that when you asked me to  feed your two calicos
while vacationing, I wasn’t given title to  pluck four large
tomatoes  from  your perfectly trained  vines.

The tomatoes were Christmas red, unbruised
and husky. It seemed criminal and unfair
to my palate not to devour them
by dusk the day I stole them;

in my shallow defense
both of your cats
repeatedly hissed
at me when fed.