It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.

If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all  into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.

Women should never
be allowed to shop
at the corner store,
where hot dogs, eggs, coffee
gas and scratch offs can be
bought all at the same time.

Inevitably, on a day she is
called to work for an hour
and a half shift, which means
it will take her twice as long
to get ready to work as it
will for her to be there.

This messes up the entire day
that she had planned for poetry
and pretending she does not need
or want a man to pump the gas and
inflate tires.

So she will go to the gas station
completely distraught that the
last 25 dollars before pay day and
her only day off till next week
will be completely ruined by
someone with a dental appointment.

That instead of eggs, hot dogs and coffee
that few dollars will be spent instead on
gas and scratch off's on the outside chance
that that last twenty five will mean she
will one day retire independent.

Hoping that there will not be any sparks
to blow her up as she spills gas all over
the station concrete, while she is furiously
scratching off the silver overlay of her
future.

Or maybe, sometimes we need a little "fuel"
occasionally. to keep us fighting, dreaming
and scratching for happiness, friendship or
for those things and people we need to
believe in.

I've dropped this Cubica today,
as often as I've dropped my heart
when I pick up the two pieces of
a broken pen, ***** them back together,
it still works
filling my lungs with vaporous poison
knowing it will eventually **** me,
I pit it against my lips and **** on it
like a straw till it blows sunshine
out of my *ss,
just what he would call a magnifying glass,
of  perspective poetry,
inhalant on course
defying destiny.
Hopefully,
seventy playgirl virgins
will soothe
that remorse,
at the very least a sepharad
of simpatico
with silly  smoking mortals
still whispering of genius.