Poem 51

Your shine wasn’t the lasting kind
I didn’t mind, the wine was good
And red and wet like a clown mouth.

Wtf?

There were Joe therapies in the dripping
Cave chrome menu sign windows.
I added sugar and cream, we streamed videos
Of nachos being skip jacked outta air locks,
We beamed ourselves back from away missions
Sans the red shirts and the hurt.

Speaking of clowns…..
I fade now at the end of the poem.
I recline on 99 dollar Salvation Army love seat cushions.
I TiVo now, lose interest, fall back into the world.
The last line is a metaphor.

Image

Old shoes

20121210-205625.jpg

I found these old shoes in the shelf at the Salvation Army. I left em for someone else but took them into my camera. I wonder who wore these. I stared at the patina, the engravings, the antiquing in the cracks that these shoes held on their surface. I looked inside, not surprised I found a lack of brand name identity, but just more wear and bent, twisted, hardened soles.

poem 50

werewolf apprehension experts seek me
I have shifted too many times.
I have been too many things
Too many lapses in the human skin
I am see through.

This poem wanted to be a tiger
But it’s a lost dog poster
Stapled too many times
To a wooden power pole.
I digress,undress under duress
And just made a mess of the second
Stanza.

Where was I. Oh yes, apprehension
Seeks me out under tables too big
To see the ceiling above.
Scraps have been dropped into bowls,
I lap at the gravy mad elf.
I have shifted too many times,
I become c-thru rulers in a
Dank basement art classroom.

I digress–wait we did this already….

I lose my shit, transform from autobot to decepticon.
Under moon phase nacho cheese stylus evenings
I trace where the last one of me was last seen,
Was it obvious j was losing my mind?
Or did you reckon so from the throes of whoa
I made as I broke upon light pole holy sonnet roles.
I made a mess of me and this poem and those sad
werewolves who never should have been
exploited this way.