Through that hole in the roof,
devoid of tar and shingle, I
                                              drip.

From that shower head
that needs just a wrench twist, I
                                                      drip,
   ­                                                   drip.    
    ­                                                            
That­ patch on the driveway,
beneath the car, just tuned up, I
                                                      drip,
   ­                                                       drip,
    ­                                                   d r i p.

In the back of a dream,
that stirs us to wake, I
                                     drip,
                    ­                               drip.

When that old dog only
gets older, sicker, I
                                drip,
                         ­                   drip.

Where nose ends and
cheeks turn into chin, I
                                       drip.

On the counter top a bottle- tipped,
chipped. I can't recall, but I
                                               drip,
                                                drip.
­
Overflowing and fraught with guilt,
a kettle of doubt, one carelessly spilt, I
                                                               drip,
                                                          ­    drip,
                                                      ­       **d r i p.

She is olive.
A tan-skinned Jasmine.
A rare earth metal;
and jewel-encrusted.

Sepia crescent moons
Dart at me. And then away.
A velvet petal.
My spine crumbles; rusted.

And when she negotiates a lone fold,
it
       babbles
                 down
                        to her shoulders
                        and comes to rest
                    across nape and breast.
                        As if immune;
                 she
       never
resisted.
                        She manipulates this simple tuck,
and every lesson, line, lecture, lash and lambaste in my language or hers is gone and has never existed.


                      This only tuck,
                                     that single fold;
                                     who gives a ****?
                                     Or so I've been sold.

Her hair is coveted;
linens for kings.
It gleams in my den,
near unworthy things.

among milkweeds and thistles,
on rocks and scraps of metal that tear our clothes,
in a mock lacking more than ivy,
but plenty of barbed wire,
the game is clean. unadulterated.
the slowest five seconds
birthed via a fundamentally sound
thing of beauty.
hands back, the other way.
ah the sweet spot.
we conjure trajectory: wind, speed. geometry.
run away!

to reconnect with who i was,
before i was,
who i seem to be.

drab and alone,
left to bear
the human condition.

they award no trophies
to those who yearn
to live serenely.

i'll smash a clock.
or maybe jump up and down-
fluff my pillows.

no, tomorrow i'm cooking.
breakfast, ******* it.
coffee too.

and i'll see an eastern sun.
i know trophies are won
by participants.

fifteen minutes or so
the pilot lumbers out from the ladies room
she weighs as much as our cessna.
perhaps now she's lighter.

she grunts into the cockpit
and ensures her girth has not switched on or off
any vital instruments.
safety is our number one concern.

i've been more confident in lawnmower engines.
this rumbled like rapture.
i shook, but so did everything else.
we flew like a mallard

over lakes and forest.
we saw a shipwreck that now hosts
families for lunch.
as well as a few baseball fields.

the air was a force.
it asserted it self, to be certain.
i sensed its angst.
it translated thoroughly.

she rambled on
it was her tenth flight today.
i looked behind,
my love was green.

chutes of straw lean
in the wind, the way they tap
gently on my knee,
or on the table.
they extend, slender,
and pop when they bend
back to a point
at the goodyear blimp

i woke at about noon today
and opened a window to air out the room-
it smelled like a ***** girl that i don't
very much care for.
and i put on some clothes and
left and closed the door behind me.

Everybody knows.

We've been here this whole time.

You're closer than you think-

Your address isn't hard to find.


Trapped alone and on display,

like all of us here.

Relinquish your seclusion

for a cheap opinion or two.


Reality fumbles

to keep up

with this consortium of bums

that look unto a crowd as if to see a mirror.


"Did you like it?"

"Yes, I thought it clever."

"But you don't like it?"

"I don't understand."


Divorce yourself

from the idea.

Grasping for straws.

If no one agrees, how can it be so?


Staring in the dark,

etching silhouettes on the wall.

Fooled into waiting

for anonymous approval.


How fragile our ego;

self-deprecate unless instructed otherwise.

Sing out loud, crave the applause;

drown in only the echo.

when i wake up from a nights typing i feel refreshed
as though i up-chucked for a few hours but brushed my teeth before
passing out for the night. i keep my eyes closed and often lose many sentences.
ones i rather enjoyed, too.

its a smelly pile or puddle on the floor,
usually near my bed or the garbage and i regard it as such,
however i do so often enjoy a little detective work
to see what didn't quite digest properly
and wonder if maybe i have irritable bowels;
or some kind of parasite.
the sour flavor tells me that even the mintiest
toothpaste sometimes a bit short of adequate
to relieve the eroded tender feeling on the backs of my teeth.
like maybe bile digests them away.

i often dream on writing nights
about how wonderful and wacky the world sometimes is.
but i usually wake up and in and unfriendly way,
remember what the score
is within just a few seconds.
the sensation of regaining consciousness and being uncertain
of your whereabouts is fleeting
but agreeable.
most times i dig that feeling;
though once aware i am generally unenthusiastic
or perhaps quite appalled by the surroundings
ive brought myself to endure.

even average mornings when the morning is the evening.
as i see it.
when there is nothing to do,
it does not particularly matter to anyone when you do it.
so long as it appears done or you believe it so.
maybe ill do something.
but as i plan it,
and cleverly smile to think i am so sharp, when perhaps someone arrives.

three eighty four a gallon,
huh, not bad. fill 'er up.
tack on an extra for the seats and floors; no container.

get up to speed
light that j.
toss the roach
burn away.