Saturday, September 14, 2013

A TABLE, FOUR CHAIRS & A BENCH, a poem - PART THREE










CHAIR – 2






A broken closet stuffed with clocks and sound. I miss cabs that aren’t called Mom. It’s between what we share and what’s between us. I walk up the hill to get some better beer and look at my arms, hanging by my side in the shadow of the sun behind me, and think I am an ape and can’t escape that fact. The idea of modern discovery is a type and a return. Watering plants is what family does, I say to myself, pouring out the contents of the plastic bottle into green and pink and green.

 Is this a statement or a question:  what time is it







I have a friend I like to see but she’s blind and so she cannot see me and so I feel bad when I see her and I don’t like feeling bad so I don’t see her that often anymore.

Arrangements, like picking berries and wine and dinner and cobbler and talk.

And I miss sadness, but only sometimes.

I had gotten so used to the street light, I thought it was the moon.

Hey ya, ho ya, I wanna hole ya. Only I don’t. I only wanna hold you and tell you it feels nice to hold me too.







The act of isolation is that you’re left alone with yourself, and therefore, not alone.

When faced with death, the only question to answer is “what’s for dinner?”

Yes is the punch line that punches you in the face.

After all this, acceptance comes quickly the dirty work besotted already by people who tell me I am courageous business, like life business is like businessing your life. We take our slants and tanks to mean anything they might want to imply. We counter that with a stern smile and sturdy hold of the fork.

To tool one’s spaghetti on a spoon in the proper way, shows who’s who at the table, Italian or otherwise.







The bright moonlight frightens me, like a face in my hand. Violate him, I say to myself, while cuddling and watching the news we already read about in the morning. Misreading is still reading, so that’s a plus. The primary way to express interest in expression is to pause and wipe that image from our brains and fuck the water cooler with a cucumber.

(But only in the summertime.)

The mass of the night soul – still violated by an ex-wife somewhere near the tire store.

What the fuck I’m saying is