his thin mouth,
roll right past his tongue.
Then flitter all about
till the pearls are strung.

They fly verbose,
heavy as a jet.
Flat lines of prose.
Some pose a threat.

I see them on paper.
Hear them in the shower,
hanging there as vapor.
Not a drop that I can scour.

They don't match
his deeds.
The egg doesn't hatch.
internally it bleeds.

on their hands
wearing wedding bands
in swivel chairs
hunched over screens

friends with pixels
not having dreams
smoking crystals
hands glued to a phone

legs bent over knee
hovering like drones
anxious to leave
another Groundhog Day

spent the same way
till the mad rush
to sit in cars
and cuss at traffic

then hit the bars
to swirl on stools
to sit at tables
till dinner cools

to sit some more
on the couch
to watch the pixels
dance and sing

and act the grouch
the same old thing
the bane of life
is in the sitting

the ***, a pillow
for more than *******
the men just billow to bed
and take a pill though,
to drop their head

I cannot be heard.
All this violence
and what it has stirred.

A slow train to hell
that won't let me off.
I bang and I yell.
and ***** I quaff.

Pitted and hollow
wearing a suit of armor.
Singing as a swallow
I can be a charmer.

This pen is a mike.
Tape up my mouth.
Ink rolls like a bike.

in a half-inch puddle of water,
simmering at the freezing point.
And if my life grows hotter
I'll crack just like my joints! I walk

in the same spot.
The scenery doesn’t change.
I walk a lot. But the horizon's
out of range. I, the ice

princess living in painted castles
of clouds. A wife and a mistress,
a poet that thinks out loud. I lost
my breath lying under him, not at

the gym. I toppled
from the bottom. Such a long
fall. It happens when you
build a house with no walls.

thin and salty,
packaged in colorful
wrapping. Covering
his holes with a

flavorful spread. He cannot
hold weight like a loaf
of bread. His toppings
slide off.  But he likes

to dip like a potato
chip. He crumbles and breaks
under pressure. I’d say
he needs a refresher. Dry as the

desert sky. He doesn't
rise as a soufflé.  And hard
like a pound of clay. That’s how
he greets his day.

like two pairs of  
socks. I'm an ankle. You're ribbed,
rolling up to the knee. I'm bright
red. You're white. We're mismatched.

You can see on sight. I'm
a mitten. You're a glove. You've slots
for fingers. I just shove all into
a big comfy pouch, with only

a space for the thumb. I’m a
hoop. You’re a stud. You have
backing. I have none. I am round. You are
flat. I hang down. You're a tat. You’re

a sneaker. I’m a sandal. Sand
and surf is all I handle. You run
fast. I like sun. You’re *******.
We contrast. Opposites in the same pack.

she'd leave. So, when she did
he said she'd return as the crimson,
golden leaves blow off the old oak trees
in autumn. She'd hit the bottom

and sprout up green again. But it's been
two years since then. He didn't think
she'd live without him. He, the sun
moon and stars. Drinking gin,

reading memoirs. No, he didn't think this
out. He just went about his day, a slave
to the work and pay. The phone, glued
to his hand as the day whittles. Then lying

on the nightstand as he mimics sleep. No,
he didn't think he'd see sheep jumping fences
or weep in his defenses. Lighted numbers
advance. He challenges himself not to

glance. He didn't think this last. But the years
are flying passed him. And he cannot recast
them. His temples greying, teeth decaying. The flesh
hangs off his bones as another hour drones.