Kissing my wrist.
1. 2. 3
times. I should

be good for
a few hours.
Then repeat again.

Stumb- stumbling stumble
over ov ov
stumbling over over

over over over
stumbling ov over
my over my

words. Every time
I try to
speak to you.

Kiss, 2, 3.
Now I won't
accidentally hurt you.

Picking at my
skin, pinching, frowning.
Cutting each and

every bite into
a perfect cube.
A PERFECT cube.

Into the car.
Kiss, kiss, kiss.
Now I won't

be in another
car accident. But!
Don't forget, don't

forget. Do it
again to be
sure. You have

to or else
you'll get hurt.
Hurt your family.

Hurt someone else's
family. Break apart
a whole life.

I can count
every single calorie
I have eaten

today without even
looking at the
label. I can

taste and tell
you which artificial
sugar is in

my energy drink.
But! I only
drink the ones

with guarana extract.
It's all natural,
so at least

kinda better, right?
FREEZE! Here comes
a new thought.

What if I
suddenly ran out
into traffic, got

hit by a car,
and traumatized someone.
Or, consider, if

I went to
a theme park,
and just jumped

out in front
of a roller
coaster, horribly traumatizing

a whole train
of children. A
huge explosion of

blood and brains.
Don't do it,
don't do it,

Don't do it,
don't, don't, don't
It's a thought.

It doesn't control
you. It doesn't.
Let it go.

Kiss kiss kiss.
Kiss, 2, 3.
Kissing my wrist.

speckled cityscape compulsion

<>

it is 6:40am.
the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film
that I’ve seen many times.
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
slept through it thankfully

the kitchen window gives up a sunrise,
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
a streaking swath of burnt and bright,
so oft described, the color commentary
previously immortalized by better poets
than me, easy found elsewhere.

the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity,
it is their moment, these red flashes, all about,
tall buildings chanting “stay away from me”
to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land
in a tumbled jungled of obscene density.

still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges,
burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue,
compelled against my will to thankful write,
for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed,
cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments.

a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself.
the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies
will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars,
at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing.
Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted *****, Hershey white chocolate,
checked by adults for safety and quality control.

all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings,
in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning
is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence,
where each patron fills in the empty sounds
with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips
in fervent unspokeness

the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River,
for a reflection is always a second best version.
30 minutes later the real and the apparition both,
disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky,
just an old rerun, familiar deviltry.

why is the sun rising
is so worshipped,
for there will never be a full day of
just sunrise colorations,
but the speckled reds still
a true color, still showing,
on perpetual guard duty,
bidding adieu to its
morning lovers,
until tomorrow,

in my city of lips.






sun. oct. 20 2019