What you don't see
is the way I wait,
watching her braid
worries in her hair
speckling small daisies,
my eyes like tumblers
gulping her in swigs
as she perches glasses
on the arch of her nose,
and then we'll take
a photo
to remark on how
we were back then
and now.

Can you taste them?
Those slow melting morsels of sugar,
just lingering on the corners of your mouth...

You let them drip from your spoon,
let them roll off your tongue
and dress your intentions.
As they try and undress me...

Everything's inviting,
the presentation, the flavor, the texture...
Like Bartlett pears:
"Granules of sugary sand, made to melt and fill every taste bud."

The warmth of your phrasing,
reassuring with their momentary high
and their lingering desire for more...

Heavy with mood,
rich with aphrodisiacs'
and smooth like that cocky-*** grin...

These words are like ants,
attracted to the smell of decadence...
Sweet rotting decadence...

Watch them decay,
as the truth beneath...
Reveals the lack of sustenance.

Live on these words?
On these hollow, sugar-coated statements,
and be satisfied?
*******.

I need more than that.

You left me nauseous,
and filled with this stain...

Keep rolling those lines,
make them smooth and inviting,
make them enticing,
make them all yours....

Never again,
will I indulge you.

I need a tall drink of water,
the wind wiping through my hair,
and this pavement,

To guide my sullied feet,
as I "beat on against the current..."
of my self-indulgent past.

The tangerine stained race track
spread across our **** carpet, a turn
by the wooden bed frame, a loop
near the five piece drum set.
My brother’s fingertips gripped a Hot Wheel
by its rear end, its rubber wheels
greeting the track, propelling it forward,
launching it into another plastic vehicle,
and Crash.

I nursed the toy cars through emergencies,
playing doctor to replace cracked windshields
and torn plastic bumpers, victims
of one too many collisions. It alarmed me
how easily the 1976 Mustang could lose its wheel,
sending it spinning like a dreidel while my brother grinned
with splintered teeth, feeling nothing.
The car survived the impact, but people
don’t always walk away from accidents. They can’t be raised
on jack stands and tinkered with. The operation table,
home to drivers with fluttering heartbeats,
can hum to the deafening beat of a flat-line monitor.

my neighbours have had their pool up since summer last year
I wonder if they stole my lost strands from the shower and threw a voodoo doll into the pool
or captured my soul in a bottle as I lazily blew cigarette smoke by their window
                         a bottle
                                         a doll

that now sits, sunken, at the bottom
of their pool and, perhaps, that's why I've spent the entire time
feeling as if I am drowning.

I have seen nothing
and I am even less
I have been here my whole life
Redundancy has a comfort to it
sometimes

But I have dreams
about climbing redwood forests
higher than any skyscraper
that have faces etched into their trunks
and dreams
of mushroom houses with neon skies
and being kidnapped by wolves and we howl and howl
Sometimes I even have lucid dreams of flying
walking through walls
and time travel
I have dreams of being a hero and saving the world
and there's a recurring one about falling in love with
a man I do not even recognize yet

So hopefully you can excuse me
for not always being ecstatic
when I wake up in the mornings
and find myself in a human bed

That's where he's been hanging around lately.
I hear their coffee is decent.
Half and half, a spoonful of sugar, and a dash of shameful regret.
He orders his eggs over easy with a side of fresh apologies.
The scratchy booth seat squeaks merciless obscenities at him
as he shifts uncomfortably
because of his aching back and aching conscience.
If I were to pass by him at a diner, I doubt I would even recognize him.
Guilt tends to deform the appearance, and derange the soul.

Oh bulletin board,
you are an ever-growing hoard
of memories no one else will remember.
Positioned so carefully in December
so the moon can illuminate you
through my sorry window in blue
on nights when I require tormenting.
You love to evoke my lamenting
about how I seemed to overlook
an important aspect that shook,
about how those on my wall
would never be able to recall
any thoughts of me at all
thumbtacked on their wall.