Perhaps

We lie in perhaps, hum-
hushed in dank corners
of fir lights and twinkled
haze, toenails crowned
with dandelion bands.

Brows beaten and drunk --
a given gesture gives way. Knees
on shins and knuckles tossed,
a fingered slip in twisted
touch. A still life

slain but breathing, broken
smarts, an absent thing.
Dishes spilling molded jam,
a carbon stench below
the shift. And when it must

it disappears, a column
crumbled to its toes. An empire
wracked with empty feet, its chairs
cracked with vacant falls. A dizzy dive
in liquid land, a stumbled leak

back into straight -- linear loops
to drop a grasp, a lone perhaps.

Bummed Despite

I have no idea what I’m doing. Acting because people are watching (not really watching), greatest influence being the last page read and some meaningless glance into upward skinny branches of college in January. Face red and serious and concerned about the phony (PHONY!) bullshit of too drunk to play and playing for any other reason than that’s what the girls wanna do.

Toaster Oven

Today I saw a color without a name,
spread eagle across bayside breezes
and visible from top to bottom

I saw it while sweeping up and away
the jagged bits of glimmering pebbles,
infinitesimal casualty of another night above

Of a day before that, in the mud and pointed
branches of campus mystagogues and sideways pathways,
Of making camp in the firehouse lighthouse of our twenties.

Of today, tonight - homemade salsa and two dollar
fifty-cent wine, and Woody Allen, and "Mamie's Blues,"
and "Whatcha Gonna Do About It?"

Of rain on the deck at half past midnight, Billie Holiday
and Ginsberg's "America" - halfway there
and with good wine.

And more free counter space.

The First of More

Bare jarrings of cocoa flesh
and bulky glasses
and blaring white diamonds,
all against fluorescent offerings
of yet another adolescent experiment,
the result of which is blissfully
thankfully
and eternally
unlearnable.

Swollen Teeth

Cloaked in patchouli,
stripped of dry sweat
and stubble, no one
sees her but anyone

and from the watch
we stand the same, a stumbled
mass of swollen teeth,
picking at playing old

and once Neil Young
belted flames from
her lips, and dirt
was in your socks

and wrinkled, whispered
brows were borne
of summer's smirking dusk,
of fingers clawing carpet.

And

And every stair's a spiral
chance, a simple
trip from there to
there

And the games are
dry and choking
and the moon is almost
here

And the take lacks
chance and chaos
and is never, always
empty

And it's nothing more
than and and or
and or is only this
time

And the more is
never nothing more
than what there is to
gain

And the end is
moderation, or something
smelling just as
rank

And in the gaps
of awkward travels
and their narcissistic
reign

Lie the echoes of
exaggeration, our
sirens of the
game.

Loose Secure

Creaking curly bones
swaying against time
nearly night already

Soft sole hums
for only two
the rest for laughter

Salt cream carousel
makes loose secure
so much so it’s so

Loaded terms only
the motto reads
we all crack at different teeth

Three hats next
by olive beat
leave your wine in the hall way

Held with feet
sweet blinking breath
stumbling in time and line for written soul.