Imaginary breakfast at the Kartoffelpuffer Salon,
his shoulders hunger for violence,
leaping and pouncing,
“Hunting and racing madden the mind”
and we are become mad,
expletives laden with reference to the dead and dieing,
like babylon for breakfast,
who would burn all those gardens?
The blessed of bal and elephants like white hills,
crashing to shore, to crashing to shore, come crashing to sleep,
mornings SPENT.
Love is the vile after dinner mint,
complementary with every blow job in some other boyfriends bedroom,
it’s less exciting,
it’s wanting all those vows of happiness and salt,
these are not poems, this is not a poem.
There are no words.
Just this moment,
of hunger for breakfast work hooky playing and illegal hand holding,
in Public!
it takes and takes,
there’s a simplicity to every step, every action,
and she’s turning away from it,
no lead pipes, no carpet of green rats,
just drinks in the afternoon,
crepes for breakfast,
and alls well that ends in secret.

—–

I dont know, Sorry, but it’s been kind of a day you know?

fires and speeches in the morning tide,
after hot tubs turned soup pots peeled back the flesh,
scoured clean with box wine
and laughing too loud at bad jokes,
new numbers and weekends of illicit artichokes.

hay fever or cold through a tick tocking
in the sinus of old snake handlers,
mechanical marionettes like sparrows
barging into clean plane glass,
the marriage of teeth and eye,
then we can count on no more
eyeteeth battles over second hand sweaters,
wound tight like forearms muscles
reaching for hortatory strawberrys,
that is exactly how she sits there,
reading.
Grinding it all up in her gears and spitting out
the pits of suffering and ugly english,
setting the barrels to ring out
in alarm against the spread,
of said,
seeds of sorrow.

short hair and lip ring
little death in the afternoon
and poems for dinner

trying making chlorophyll in there!
—–

torn finger to torn foot
short stories written in blood
again and again

In Series
—–
burning plastic and cutting craiglist adds
tickle the dead skin, grown white and flaking off
finger tips.

cell phone melts, three pounds heavier from new numbers
and dinner dates over stale lines
and too much garlic.

shoulders wobble, balanced on the pages of a bible
their spine cracked and smudge marks
from the butts of prison cigarettes
and butterfly kisses.

Achilles paints another turtle pink and blue,
they line up full of spite and
dream of arrows with ankles
bronzed and bountiful.

spider egg breakfast
and a country for old men.

He sits there remembering
auburn hair inexplicably stuck to the bed sheets after days and days
of washing on the permanent press cycle,
scabs crawling across shoulders to the tune of kitten kisses,
she used to laugh ferociously
and her lips didnt touch when she reads poems,
blue potatoes cooking in a cast iron skillet
and a bathrobe turned burka.

like little broom sticks on ice,
she won her bicycle in a curling contest,
all cardboard christmas style,
10 easy steps, instructions for constructions but no tools,
all those parts in individually labeled boxes,
so he wont forget how much and in what order,
he loves those things,
like eggs on the side walk,
or cotton candy aftershave,
egyptian rain?

now rocking chairs that bite and snatch,
clowns that catch,
and decibel turn doorbell or drum beat,
the hoof fall of miles and mile of running over road,
the same trail seen every time,
so we will not forget, so we will remember,
that breakfast, of spider eggs and sausage
and a sweat smoked bed.
—-
some things need editing, and some other things cry out for it.

grey beady eyes,
elfin knees, to sharp by far!

flowers unwiltingly offend,
Where were you drinking last night?
watching NPR and sobbing to the sound of inoffensive jazz.
Sing along with the goat herders,
watch the teeth.

Danger fish walks into a bar,
metal on scale and slime,
a fillet knife of distance between dinner and a life of promises,
which drip drip drip down a needle of white fenced dreams,
simmered in the oil of long breezy nights, out door dogs and matching furniture.
Danger fish sips another illicitly old scotch tumbler full of Larry,
watches finger tips streak the glass from the outside,
like snowflakes in reverse and reminds me
of that one time, with some girl and hazelnut.