Why Again?

She had wanted me,
there was no pretense
on her veneered face.
She had lain her flushed
body on my couch, and
despite the blaring view of
her globes piercing
my sexual eye the only
thing I could ponder
was if she was mussing
the velvet cushion with her
moisture.

Never mind the fact that
all of my erogenous zones
perked up, that a soldier was
saluting his captain or that
headlights were in my doe eyes,
her juices were on my very expensive,
not that it mattered mind you,
but very expensive
couch cushion.

When she turned and crooked
an inviting finger at me I stood
still, resisting the worm on her hook
still thinking of the last time this
happened and the awful ordeal
with the Vietnamese woman
at the dry cleaners.

Something funny happened to me

the other day.
I watched the rise of
neo-fascism,
trumpet blare and all.

I feigned patience in line
at a coffee house
I frequently adore,
eagerly awaiting my
hot bean juice
when slowly, my ears
perked up to the scene
unfolding before
me.

I think my life flashed
before my eyes.
It’s supposed to do that
you know,
right before you die.

I took a step back
almost falling over my mind,
crouched in terror on the floor.
One question floating
in the air around me.

What the Hell
is
a
half-caf
half soy/half skim
low cal
unsweetened
caramel
half cappuccino
half latté
chai on top
with whipped cream
and a twist of lemon?

I tried very hard
to hold my composure,
and did, save a small
“What the?”
as my friend the barista
attempted to pool
all of her caffeine powers
and conjure this drink
from Never Never Land
I shook my head
Yearning

to explode in a fury
of uncouth words
Enforcing the opinion that
such an abomination was a travesty
of the human race and
by the Geneva Conventions
must be tried by
Military Tribunal.

But,
I didn’t.
Instead, I just watched
as the Clueless twenty-something
chattering away on her cell phone
grabbed her concoction without so much
as a nod of thanks and
passed through the door
with a hauntingly familiar
straight legged march.

I
took a step forward,
and said
“Coffee, black”
hovering for a tick and
Executing the scene with
a quick draw
“Please.”

Punk

The quilt covered walls
gasped loudly when I realized
I had never called Grandma
a cunt,
But I should have when the runners
had finally come to a decision and the
geraniums had gone to Mom, the paintings
to Dad and the antique thimble collection
to the disparaged adolescent sulking
in a putrid pool of self-loathing
imagination, gunshots and bloody bathwater.

Marketing Messiah

It was the street lights.

They had brought you out
from the tarnished shadows
so that you could gleam for me.

The plaza bustled,
barely containing the
flury of businessmen in suits
and shoppers succinctly shifting bags
from arm to arm as they
stood still, laughing in front of
the sparkling displays of ugly shoes
pretending they thought such atrocities
were beautiful.

They might have stared at you,
or I should say they would have
stared at you, if they hadn’t been blinded
by the Prada handbag
with the tacky buckles.

You aren’t blind though, are you.
You sat there and stared
into the planter of a sickly shrub
that held the remnants
of a Happy
Meal.

I approached to see what you
were devouring with empty eyes
full of such intense focus.

You noticed my awareness, stood
and went away, almost running.
I thought of chasing you down
and forcing a conversation on you
but saw no logic in the act and
crouched where you had stooped
instead.

It took a moment
for me to see
and another
to understand.
Why had you bled so much
intent upon the ground by
an ordinary slice of sidewalk?

Was it the curse word
carved in concrete or
the slippery pattern of the stained
ground?

Was it the self important
posture of the shrub
that struck you so
or the thundering march of
ants along the metal grate?

I did see the shadow
that looked like
some sort of savior
from the name brand temple
around me and
savored the moment where
I alone noted the microcosm.

Did you?

or had your shoelace
unraveled its twisted
form, forcing you
to squat there
on the dirty
street by
the
sickly bush
in front of an ugly
handbag with tacky buckles
for me to notice under a
street light with my
bags weighing
heavily
on my arms?

In Earnest Its Just a Coca-Cola

I offered you something to drink.

In return you handed me an effigy
of my self, already aflame.

Honestly though, I suppose I should
have expected that after I rode
your heart out on a rail, laughing at
the feathers that waved good bye
as the wind plucked them from the tar.

It was a strange war, the one we fought.
Our hearts stood strong in their camps, marching everyday.
In the morning light our heads devised new weapons systems
and spent all night with Liver and Genitals,
losing themselves and sleeping around.

Even now the tensions are still high, I see.
For my small attempt at diplomacy
has escalated into a fire fight between our eyes.
Upon hearing this news my stomach cringes with resentful anticipation
and my lungs let out more disappointment.

A Moment By the Sea

I found myself between a rock and soft breast.
Wisping fabric floating on a light breeze,
the cliffs breathing heavily onto the ocean,
the trees bobbing their heads to the undertones,
the grass beneath, with broken backs, still tried
to bear the weight we pushed on them,
as I wiped the dewey tear from your cheek.
I drank in your scent rushing over the earth and
my soul ruptured bright and oozed from my eyes
falling smoothly into yours.