She has time for the cigarette,
but not for the kiss,
or for the tears.
She was right about their produce.
The peaches taste like sweetened dust.
And the apples, overripe.
Bruised at rough touch like battered wives.
HAP + DMJ-
Exchanged writing practice
I crush the black burnt paper into my fist
and thrust that same fist
into the moist sand.
Open fingers in dirt when's a better time?
the weeds rooted in goldenrod. I pull,
my hand out, browned- grounded.
Leave the weeds.
apple. you are a gift.
your seeds. your tea.
pardon moi por-
drinking, talking, disrespecting your... you.
Honey Crisp. Gala. Jazzy.
That deep bute
bene- fill me up with your fruit.
I plucked the biggest one while he wasn't looking. Left the orchard empty.
it's pretty much gonna be a yes.
and then... it was actually, you.
then, but, whatever.
no, I get what you're saying.
she needs time to get it together.
He stands to her.
-How long will that take? Deep dish of dirty mud pie, Patti throws it.
-I said when I am. I said I'm not, leave it alone.
He left w/ the chocolate pudding over his face.
-You're not gonna wash that?
He left w/ the gummy worms still spleared on the floor.
He left and came back w/ two hot drinks and handed one to her and it was scalding and she burnt her tongue -Fuck!
-I thought we needed to cool down.
the cigarette ash becomes stolen light, moonlight on a summer lake.
and your lover cries: "ninja! (where are you??)"
a vanilla clove between us when you said
choked on the smoke of the claim-
I know how you feel.
"twice ever afternoon"
we swing toward a lover
who can manage our toothpaste stained cold.
but warmth, please...
I swing in the songs, below land, my ass fits like hand-
grips to the chain- up
just evening gets this light.
he takes his eyes and manages to make girls
in love with them.
like a sweet sickness-
like a tuesday night affair. with sight.
he walks his bike one-handed traps how he'll steal your fist tight
tight tight over his next day dismissal, big eyed kiss and point toward the purple line-
"when your heart's on fire/ you must realize/ smoke gets in your eyes."
what a shitty birthday mood.
why leave the house in the dark?
The ghost of our family is there.
He will not be able to take her, or retire.
He ages in his gut
that pouch full of last night lovers
By midmorning he's excuses in your grey eyes-
you can guess time by light
settle days at the bottom of the fruit basket, his offer0
a teenaged image
crap. I'm going back to that house.
House that used to be a home inside a crappy poem. (cont.)
vasoline nicotine perfume
Dorris wore that pocka-dotted number-
ties at the waste she sinches-
all the smooth moves out of saturday night suitors.
The bar stales in its ash-foul vacancy.
those walls can change.
but the change is like a fast buck turned into dimes.
Or a flyer for a past even. Cooling memory.
but better than carrying the whole damn town around. (cont.)
Heavy-laden lover of
moss rocks lost pennies
I feel you
in the cracks of my cup of joe.
I drink it black. I drink it all.
black guitar and champagne pink spilled nailpolish
the tan carpet.
on a road named after my porn-self.
And everything tastes a little spaghetti red. (end.)
how you dropped
my favorite glass bowl blown by the last lover of fire turned hot0
I cant remember who shaltered and who swept the shards.
mouth open to you how you left me so holy- open
And they told me- Don't eat what you can't swallow.
lips. lips kiss. lips kiss flavor... and other...