Someone stole the last piece of my turkey sandwich.
I bet the ******* put some pepper on it.
I hope it was pepper from that
***** *** pepper-shaker that is no longer see-through.
That ******* left me with one poker-chip pickle slice and
Those pieces of potato chips that you
Have to spear with a fingertip to eat.
That *******!
I am sure he put mustard on that last piece of turkey sandwich;
In that delicate delicatessen squiggly pattern that is all in the wrist.
-And, speaking of wrist, that ******* forged my signature perfectly.
He even put another Lone Star bottle on my tab then
Neatly arranged the bottle caps next to four toothpicks.
That suave *******.
To honor him, when I get home
I am going to smoke his ****,
**** his girlfriend and take his ****.

The canopy
was a kid's collage
of finger paints
on fathers old night shirt.
While the day dries
he will take a nap.

I turned the corner to see Sunshine and Crystal
Breaking into my efficiency.
Crystal’s legs and *** were hanging out of the window.
Sunny was already in.
Both barely had anything on.
Both thought I was asleep and wanted me on their own;
So bad that they teamed up.
Time's touch of roughness and
A hot mess of radiance;
Treating my house as if it were my heart.

A Baker's ex-wife ran out of cake
so she gave head for some bread.

Her voice would cleanse me, but
Her voice-mail popped every last
Bubble in the bath water.
Her phone rang and rang.
Wringing me out.
Leaving each ring
In the bathtub.
-
I thought you were still in the shower
but I found you in the sunlight that the patio keeps.
I missed the tightening of your skin as it dried.
Then it loosened you in its warmth just to
Show me the sweat beading. Growing wherever
Like seeds let go from the wind; held no longer
Than they should have been.
-
It was a careless orchard.
Rowed haphazardly.
The organics of now
Fruitful and ripe
But only for that moment.

the perimeter remains
a puzzle
without its centerpiece.
as at rest
as an
open beat.
a fist full of meat.
a trophy
of
atrophy.

A pack of them.
Light reflecting off of the black of them.
Might have missed my smile,
I was seated to the backs of them.

No reniggs.
No cuts.
I have nothing but two hands
of snaps for them.

If there was a mic,
I would rap for them.
But,
tonight is jazz night.
So,
I tip the band extra
then
toe tap for them.

I Wrote her a love letter but she dropped it.
No money for the metro so we hopped it.
No money for the petro so I hocked a loogie
Then pawnshop hocked it:
Spitting that sick **** for profit.
We sat prostrate in front of our profit, then,
With her wet wig at the end of my mop-stick.
Check her prospects, then, blurry her optics.
We fly out in a flurry of topics.
I'm the nit-wit in her twit-pics:
The photo-bomber.
But she stopped its clock-ticks when she cropped it.
I should have told her,
I'm so fly she would die in my ****-pit.
And the Black Box is,
The love letter in her back pocket but she dropped it.

hitting the green
makes me want to watch the blue
twist baby twist
so slow they think you are a *****.
but I have watched you all day.
and know that you  get *****

i have seen
some pull
an extraordinary weight
just to seem
simple.

She said
if I made her eyes
roll-out the back of her head
I could use them to play dice.
Well, I did.
But, I rolled a snake-eyes,
twice.