In your vision you are the only thing with bloodshot eyes.
You always wear a robe
that speaks seven languages... and a bank of fog is at your feet
nipping at your naked heel.
In your vision you remember how your arms feel in sunshine.
It is intense.

Your can-opener is hissing an etude
that alludes to wise men...
who bathe in miracles
and roam the world,
untarnished in Poverty.
Your can-opener whispers in hush tones
about barbarians at the gate. And they say
' they've come for the Linen ! '

You are not deceived.

In your vision you are the only thing that can backward engineer
a Universe.

On your way back to the homeland of your algebra
you hesitate. “ you may have left your keys in your Other Robe...”
The Robe that hallucinates constantly~ Carrying on about
' The dire consequences of leaving terrycloth alone with the keys '
and, afflicted with Prophesy Tourettes
the piteous tide of doom ' sayeth the robe '
you must suffer.

In your vision, you are the only one
looking for the keys.

I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in bed watching the patterns reflected moonlight made on my ceiling when I heard the faint beep of the kitchen microwave. I smelled popcorn.

I decided to fill up my water bottle and see who was up. I slipped on a thick, terrycloth robe I’d gotten from Lisa last Christmas. It must weigh 15 pounds and it’s so warm and heavy I seldom wear it.

I silently glided into the main room. Leong was standing at one of our two large picture windows staring out at the night. Her left arm cradling a bowl of ultimate-butter popcorn. Anna told me last night that Leong and her long-time boyfriend, who’s back in China, had broken up. They’d been together forever and had been expected to marry.

A bright half-moon was hanging high over campus, an electric ornament on a velvet background, its moonlight glint painted the world, like ice on mountaintops.

“I heard about your breakup,” I said, “what does it mean?” In Leong’s world, who you dated was of family interest. That person had to be approved, their bona fides proven - they had to fit into some long term plan.

“It means I can’t be tamed,” she said, with soft bravado. After a moment, she spoke again, more seriously. “It’s better this way - for now - someday..,” she trailed off.

I understood. All of our hopes are resting on someday, like so many wagers at a casino. I imagined some gambler, stepping up to a betting window, in an old black-and-white movie, saying, ”Gimmie 5 bucks on Someday to win.”

Something in her voice, a brittleness, precluded further questions. I looked at the clock, it read 3:47. I gave her a hug and yawning, filled up my water bottle from the refrigerator's filtered tap.

“See ya.” I whispered and headed off, back to bed. With any luck I could squeeze another hour's sleep out of the morning.

The Spongecrab was white as snow,
and covered in nubs soft like terrycloth.
"Don't ******* touch it!" they said, but I,
full of wondering anticipation at the sweetness
of the Spongecrab's entrails, and entranced
by the thought of running my hand over his
back, my palm pleasantly tickled by
the cute little Spongecrab... well,
I could not resist.

[This tale is not Snow White.
Happy endings, in all actuality,
happen rather rarely.]

I gaily chased my quarry as he
grapevined across the pale sand,
and just as I brushed his enticing shell,
I fell to my sudden death, heart stopped.
"Heed well the wisdom of Elders," they said,
the villagers; and that night, every villager
fed well on the succulent flesh of the Spongecrab.
A Spongecrab can always be opened if
one uses rubber gloves to open his pretty,
squishy shell, soft as terrycloth.

Lying here,
Now nothing more than a fragment of terrycloth
Faded from red to pink

You are something much more.
You know the essence of athleticism,
Of strength, stamina, courage.

You relish every drop of perspiration,
Rhythmic breath of runners is sweet music,
And now you have been cast aside,
Reposing gently on the side table,
Alone but for the stopwatch.

He followed the buck past
the wormwood barn

down the game trail
into and out of

three hundred yards
of multiflora rose

(so thick his jeans
raveled like terrycloth)

to shoot and leave for
dead, walked away.

bubble up to

the surface.
your perforated skin swallows
my wayward tears
I sit in vivacious waters;
your eyes my captain.
your

beauty is kinetic – yet stillness becomes you.
I’ll read one more poem before you uncover the core
of my shriveled

skin
each time we step in, our waters are forgiving –
scorching only patches of us while I rub out the redness with ScarGuard
in our waters:

you grow three bubble beards
and I
submerge myself under running taps
and we coat our lips with soap to press against each other

your every angle catches light

I’ll swaddle you in terrycloth and carry you
to save you from the raging jets –
our former trysts swirling down the drain
kiss me so the heated water will go from you to me
I’ll disappear beneath the surface to guide you up

find my tender hands in this hollowed mould

My darkness
Is unbearable
I lay underneath the covers
Curled up and blinking

Why
Do I feel so wretched?
Always?
If I had the strength I would change this terrycloth robe
Wash it maybe
Look out the window and not have it burn my eyes

Instead I lay here
I push the blankets away and
Look up at the pimpled paint job on the ceiling
The crackalure of antique white
I loathe that color
It pierces my soul with
Bland forbearance

What am I to do?
Nothing.
Survive.
Take a pill. Talk about it.

The phone rings as it does
My maid enters
There’s someone on the line
There’s a problem
It’s always the same

A rather large stegosaurus ravaging
the South Seas
A rich magnate with bombs and a timer
Laocoön’s prophecy coming true
It’s just too much

She holds the phone extended
with her hand on her hip
waiting impatiently
I know that she has work to do
and that I am no help, stalling
There are dishes and laundry
She wants to wash these sheets
I crawl out and put on my tights
My belt
My cape

She hands me
my multivitamin and my smoothie
as I leave
but I’ll be back
and will slip like a python
into the new ironed sheets
before the evening darkness
Which awaits patiently for me
And I will stay there
Until that phone rings again

Sitting alone with all my pain and strife
Everyday cuts like a knife
Guess I’ve been written out of the book of life
All the angels left my side

And my friends, they cause me damage
But all the same they help me manage
In my head, they all speak Spanish
And I have no dictionary

I’m a sensual insect with a heart of gold
Silver crucifix and terrycloth robe
Wish I could get back the love they stole
From the chakra in my chest

But maybe it’s all for the best
Yeah, maybe it’s all for the best
Still it can’t help but feel like a test

And in my dreams I crawl through the wormhole
I turn back time and get off parole-
The kind that eats away at your soul
In a world of normalcy