Miss Anne I take in gips
and gasps (and what
is a gip I shall never
tell but it purrs
like a heart gone
all to hell
One decade gone
another renewed
shall I take another
pass by you?
Miss Anne you
make my hands
as large as the
moon but less
in charge as clumsy
as a puppy born
in June with a
mouth full of
flowers let loose
by a grin
forever goofy
thank to you
I win
(!)

You say such awful things
meant to squash any last bit
of love and have me revel
in hatred
I say add your words
to the ever growing pile
fight it out even, each
of you having your own
specific recipe- how to
hate and when, an army
of stupidity that has
no end
You say my pain is all
wrong, stubbornly denying
the possibility of loving that
sort of man, therefore I should
be able to just move along
I say I would rather be tangled
up in love than take on that
sort of ugly thing, this hatred
you want to throw on me like
a prized possession, keep it
for yourself, hoard it for
the leaner times

you're going to need it

So much for love
Yes
and all of that
crap (He grabbed
my face and) led
my mouth
to that

place

that drove
both of us
Crazy
willingly,
and at a full
run

But)

not in love
nope
just so much
fun

thank you dear
and so much
crap

(wanta do maybe
one more
lap?)

A sad saw of a tune
worked on my nerves
always a bit too soon
(if not now then when?)
I am my worst friend
Saw saw saw
away at this tune
careful steps with
a hunk of beveled
glass
(easily clears the room)
If not mine then who's?
I drip onto the carpet
Red (red red red) as
my tune
Love and life comes
in drips and drabs
(I have marked
on a calender
my impending
death)
Soon

Of all the really dubious decisions
(and this is the only one we know
about, knowing nothing about
much of anything)
Mother hatched us barely three
or so yards from the swoosh of
the interstate- and not one of those
two lane chicken **** things where
nicotine addicted deer meander
freely, shooting the breeze and
chewing on a fresh **** tossed
from a window into a nice morning
like this
Mother saw fit to hollow out
a capricious tunnel sort of thing
under a pile of god knows what
(and god knows even less
than we do)
Was she fooled by all the greenery
or was she just plain pooped,
too tired to find a decent tree
like any decent mother
would do?
Somehow this eight lane
truck route seemed ideal
even as we are thrown back
and forth by unnatural winds
and great heaving gusts of
gasoline and diesel, where
one errant breeze is sure
and shrill death
We are a soot covered clutch
that even mother love cannot rescue
(not that we know anything about
that) "What you don't know won't
hurt you" she was wont to sing
hinting at the ones that came
before us and the ones that
will surely follow
The crows gather at dusk and we
can almost hear their bone crunching
laughter and the buzzards do lazy
fly-overs, no one is in any special
hurry under this layer of traffic,
the constant bleak black motion
There is no appealing to the bird kind
in any of them, that we would compare
our lot in life is an act of desperation
you see, because Mother held life
lessons in her grip with the mercenary
coolness of one who doesn't waste
even a moment of joy on those
not meant to live long enough
to appreciate it