Tepid laps of water

that the sunset has colored black

sift through the still-warm sand

that I am nestled in. The stars

are out; I am alone.

Elucidate me, earth: tear

my flesh and give it to the grains

and pull me with the receding 

fluid. Make my mind lucid 

to the flow.

A mosquito meets my elbow

and as it departs I involuntarily

reach out in an extending

red pimple. I cannot be still

yet.

I scald myself frequently in worry's ice
bath, hold my head under and greet
delirium. I then hop out,
make a cheese omelet,
and could not feel better.

Drudgery trotted to me and slipped a syllabus
in my palm. Play pointless mind-games--
hops through hoops--and win
life! You live and are free!
Your reward: more games.

A minnow swims beside the window
into its whisky glass home. Grandpa
droned about metempsychosis
until he croaked. But his theory
is his own, and in I drop
a shot of Everclear,
and as the minnow twists
for joy I drain it all
so that for Grandpa
is one final choke!

Will they fire me tomorrow or
am I in fire now? Molten lakes
and sharpened rakes that scrape
away fleshy ease until a sound
like nails on blackboard screeeeks
and that shrill shrill worry makes me wonder
if a toad in warming water feels unease.

And here I sit on cushioned chair
with no bad news except the heater
is up a bit high.

A shock of hair that pulls him nearer until cold
the first sensation he thought then hard
until the tip of his nose whitens
and he bounces his gaze
from one opposite eye to its adjacent orb.

He breathes long hot breaths
until a foggy wet
thin gauze shrouds the pair.
He squeezes his own and arches back
and sneezes four crimson specks
from his alabaster nose.

An elder of the past and child of the present,
this moment he approximates trajectory
and launches intention through turbulence.

Sara did not know her hello would drain Bud's comfort like wine from a Franzia box punctured by a stiletto heel. They sat nearby for minutes for weeks now and watched the street for the bus and smiled when they converged, but he never spoke. Bud knew this moment: when the other wanted acquaintance beyond well-meaning faces. Conversation on topics endless. Words passed like vibrations through a Newton's Cradle where an end-ball bounces in pleasant surprise: "Hah, you love tiki masala too?" and then makes the other fly and it back-and-forths forever. But for Bud each time Sara or any woman set his ball abound some racket slaps it from its tether and he goes off. It's that thought of boxed wine or some dark viscous burgundy vintage trailing from the bent nose of his mother and her yells to pinch it back into place that hits like gunpowder against a dense iron ball that then shoots off at escape velocity straight to the stars. Bud pinched it into place. Sara, why do you leave him at the stop?

You sit in my armchair and say you may have breast cancer,
and I nod and type at my desk.
You continue and say you finally ran the full nine miles
     but stopped to rest and walk around the graveyard,
and I say good job. If I slept more I'd say more.

I tell you to leave my room and you laugh and say good night.
When you're gone I think about you being gone forever
until I consider sadness. You're strong willed but worried,
and I sit indifferent. If I were a pool I'd bear your tears
and try to reflect a happier image,
but lately I just feel like a cone that drains sewage.

Empty bottles, envelopes, bowls, receipts and bent papers on my desk remind me of Andrew's or Elanor's attempts to give meaning to pocketbook houses.

Nutritional life-boosting Carbonated Kale Invigoration $10
Saucer-cup keep-it-warm combo $15
$500 well done this week! mattress
     $10 umbrella because bonuses keep out the rain.

Tomorrow on sale is electric blanket and gas prices drop! keep treading and did you see Kim Jong executed eighty? Don't stop when you see the soda pop--buy the thirty-two pack and keep an eye out because war is on our doorstep.

I move my books aside and with one swipe slide the rest off the side of the desk and into the bin.

Underneath atop or around
my intentions are inside, outside
stitched to the back and shone
through the front of my eyes.

A thought flits through a mind
like one dime in a million
rolling in a funnel
and racing until its speed
outpaces observation
and it shoots through the exit.

A lip prick or tongue flick or eye twitch
spasms forth as spare change
exchanges potential for action
and a ding sounds and I wait for your reaction.

Is there some opening in eat now drink now thought that I can fall through and land on a violet budding bloom? Where body feels growth of foundation and nearby stands the reflective shore that extends unending and stays calm and crystalline? Somewhere. Deep down. A place where a frown is a wind that recedes and a smile too, and the air watches its movements and the water is always blue. And the violet buds and blooms. And you, sitting there, make roots and absorb the waters and grow too.

Emotions pass like pain
after stepping on broken glass--
skin is ripped and blood stains
and mind jumps, but a week
later it is a bother and a month
a reminiscence and a lifetime--
inexistence.

Ash foot steps then shin steps,
knee steps and as I walk stomach
neck and head steps. I would look behind
but there is no more I. The wind blows
and--ah! Here it is!

Despite sense that departs when we meet,
my mouth half-opens and quakes forth
my intention's dandruff, and eager hope
blooms repeatedly in a emerging and reemerging
bud. That must count for something.

One word, one word:
nothing. Another: everything.
Feeling seems to jump between
void and mass like a giddy madman
who cannot make up his mind.

Black spots drill holes in my head
These are holes, there is a hole in my head.
Something is missing.

It's an electric type of charge,
just some kind of magnetism
that creates this obstruction,
but it doesn't really matter
because it isn't really matter.

Ochre glyphs encircled your eyes

and subtle ferns  mixed with your black locks

when we first crossed paths on Halloween eve.

Now those marks give way

to bronze skin that condenses all energy

and pulls me nearer: each moment

makes each thought heavier and feeling hotter.

When our pupils meet the transparent twines

of deeper intentions erupt from our bodies

and knot with an electric spark in the brisk air.

 

Or at least it seems that way to me:

Infatuation with the sun will blind.

I am dust, yet daily lose myself in the flows
of hormones or emotions--I tremble with frustration
or anxiety. I tell myself even then that all is nothing,
but cannot negate feeling. It is meaningless,
but exists, and I will tumble
along this temperamental track
until my atoms lack unity.