Rainy Days

When the stops signs go green
you know you're in danger, but management
and big business basics keep the threat
to a minimum. So have at it, and by God go for gold.
It's worth it, surely, but certainly hard work
and like spaghetti with a spoon, at some point
you just got to put your nose to the plate and dig.
It's a sticky situation for sure, but so is good sex.

Success the Giant Blue Ox

I had seen the sun screaming at David.
He was a giant rock with bristled pines
that etched a version of an attractive jawline,
a true corner booth cafe man. His name might
not have been David, but we talked
for most of the day and the rest of it.
He spoke of his life, which spoke to my lacking.
It was sufficiently trivial and I was fascinated.
As the sun went on screaming I listened intently,
but am no longer fluent in sun.

Around that same period I stumbled
upon a version of the Saint Valentine's Day
masquerade, and took a walk. My knees knocked
the stroll as I learned my left foot's slight
cant right. This defect has defined my existence,
complete with pronunciation keys, a diagram and
a red velvet spine. I beat myself up over it once,
and then again so twice. The third
instance was hardly worth mention, I died.

So I walked into that old saloon,
the pointed pistols made my skin scurry
under the table and out the door. There was
no elaborate chase scene. Instead I sat,
kept my cool and crossed my bones.
The confidence was now oozing
out of my body, dripping, pooling on the hardwood.

Speaking of time, where has it been all
my afterlife? All clues say it left
with my body, but no one else seems worried,
so I play along. Stepping out of the popcorn parlor
I count eighteen shades in the tree line.
Picture it: Marilyn meets Mickey
on a summer afternoon in a world
that has only one question. A delightful
thought for the upcoming holiday season.

What is it? Exactly my point.
It's the only question that exists now,
and overwhelmingly so. It has consumed all
recent forms of inquiry. It wasn't of joy or grief
or any emotion at all, but it made me cry
because it was. Seeing that it wasn't,
I answered it and forgot the question.

And so I no longer consider myself apathetic,
or today, human. It's not just the label I yanked
off my shirt, it is a lifestyle choice. It has made
the most difficult things disappear such as myself
in your mirror, and so I ask:

How do you feel today? Yes, I too feel with my fingers,
and I have finally recovered from my short bout
with humanity. I am a survivor and probably
deserve a ribbon or something.

Perhaps

I went downtown and backwards,
saw lights pumping overhead.
In the corner God was playing
pinball and clearly winning.
The jukebox buzzed my favorite
song but not well, while
a much nicer tune sat chatting
to possible friends or worse-
to possible lovers. Everything about
her was big and white and inviting.
Anyways I had change for two
songs and one drink so I bought
two drinks and drank them.
Then I waited, and waited,
and then some more. It became clear-
I would not get a turn before close.

Crooked

Why would you hang a photo there?
It's all out of sorts, sort of like
that scene from the other night.
There were fire breathers and body
paintings, generally a mess of stolen
silverware and naturally we ended up
tucked cozy in beds. It was a spectacle
to be certain but I can't quite shake
the notion that it may have been excessive
and more so than usual. Either way I awoke
again to find this poorly placed photograph
and have come to offer a solution.
Remove it from my wall.