god and me and you

I walk up to god,

my feet sweaty and sore,

lungs gasping the earthy air,

the windless sky a lying

summer blue.

pines crowd, so green

they smother.

I walk down to the past,

wet sand molding to every

bare foot step;

slamming crushing foaming

until I can no longer see,

or hear,

or feel

anything but grey-sky clouded-fog

and you

rhythmic blue-riding soul.

primal kindred

grindingly slow

reach up and drag

down—

finally breathing in life

as I drown.

the ugliest couches are the most comfortable

a dorm room full of broken rules

and haze from an overflowing

ashtray that the ceiling fan cannot

dissipate. Beer

chills the mouth and warms the chest;

barefoot toes tap on bed frames and

Dylan lends wisdom as voices

oscillate between singing

laughter and serious tones,

while the polyester plaid coaxes

confessions that best friends

have never heard.

Unbearably Inevitable

“Truth only complicates matters.” – Baudrillard

but red wine brings it up

again, tired mouths leaking the ache

of the screaming silence, scared

of the staring walls, time only

measured by the breadth of breath.

“who needs truth?” he asked her.

it only makes you an accessory

to hate and on the losing side

of love.

she told him

she always fell in love in

the fall, but ignorant ears

only heard confession,

not invocation.

don't know what to call this yet

gin (Pinnacle) with a dash of cointreau, shaken over ice, served in a chilled martini glass and garnished with three frozen blueberries.

House of Procrastination

Actions always planned are never completed. – Democritus

luminous leftover light bulbs burn low, hiding
the turned-over laundry basket littering clothes
on the bedroom floor. haphazardly stacked
books and untouched family photos weigh
down the thriftstore bookshelf. the window frames
trees bending like asparagus in a cussing wind,
and an ivory-billed woodpecker, a name-brand pun,
his snapping neck playing a percussion piece,
his feathers flaunting fashion, and his beak passionate
for food, shows a motivation lacking in the human occupant.
rain-soaked garden gloves sit below,
forgotten in the grass, as their absent hands
sleep indoors, desperately in need
of a visit from the good friend ginkgo.

driving rant

What exit are we supposed to get off at?
No, I don’t like the bp; we
should get gas at the Quiktrip. No, we’re
not eating at O’Charley’s. Why—
because it’s overpriced fast food. Change
the CD already; we’ve listened to
this one three times over. I see
the merge sign; I’m trying, dammit.
Well, this fucker keeps speeding up
then slowing down. What? I see
the HOV lane open—ok—GODDAMN IT!
-what? Yeah, we’re doing
ok on time. Check my bag, would ya?
Do I have toothpaste—toothbrush—
sandals—sneakers—how many pairs
of socks?—deodorant—chapstick—
lotion—no lotion. crap. Maybe the
hotel will have some. Will you stop
reading the signs—I can see. Oh—
the sign for Cumming. I know,
I don’t want to go to this meeting
either. But at least the Holiday
Inn is nice, and free.

kindergarten

she walks from her table
to return a pale blue plastic tray,
the square compartments
emptied of cafeteria food,

(according to a game,
she only steps on the green tiles
spread among the gray ones, spaced two apart,
long strides for her short legs)

her brown hair falls down
her back, framing a plain face
and big eyes that can’t decide
what color to be.

she is flanked by
her two best friends, girls;
one blonde, the other has
curly brown hair,

(the hair every girl dreams of having,
while watching Disney movies,
knowing that one day
she will be beautiful
and happy,
just like a princess,
just like the somehow-true
fairy tales,
with the talking birds that
land on your finger
and a bland but handsome man
who never fails to rescue you).

a once-friendly voice says,
I don’t want to be friends with
you any more, because
she’s prettier than you.

her feet pause for a moment
as she turns the tray in,
her small hands not wanting
to let go of the solid blueness,
her eyes not wanting to lose focus,
as her only two friends in the world
link arms and walk in the other direction,
smiling faces.

autumn in a temperate climate

brown leaves cling to trees;
fingertips, babysitters of the soul.
they fly.

separated lovers cry alone, single again.
orangy-red sunsets
draining cigarettes out the window.
the world’s bodies and brains breaking down.

Cookies for breakfast

hob-nobbery goodness,
crispity-oatmeal-crunchity
sugar between the cracks of my teeth,
daydreaming of tea and English gardens.

Scenes from tonight

Kara: Where are we going to get hookers and blow in Habersham?
Seth: You could substitute meth for blow.
K: Yeah, that would work.
Random guy in bar: Never substitute meth for blow.
K: Sage advice.

...

Random girl in bar: Who was the female lead in Spiderman?
K: Kirsten Dunst.
Girl: Thanks.
Seth: And that's why you got a master's in film.

...

K: You know what I hate? When people play "Piano Man" on the guitar.

...

S: Someday I'm going to record a cover of "Mr. Tambourine Man" using only a tambourine. There isn't a tambourine in that whole damn song.