Saccharina
I want my
gingerbread house to have
peppermint
Stainmaster carpets.
I want a $57
Little Debbie
butterscotch
crumpet pull-out sofa
to sit on when
the witches come.
I'll put a
double-decker
General
Electric oven in the
den and bake
the world.
When it's set
at 500 the ceiling
will drip and
the ginger walls and
butterscotch
will all converge
into one
disgusting swamp
of viscous
sucrose, carnauba wax,
and yellow
number 6.
It'll suck me
under and stick
to my belly and
harden on my calves.
My teeth will
rot out and
crumble and
I'll be so thirsty
but I'm stuck
like sugar
glue to paper.
Plus my Price
Pfister sink was
white chocolate
and it's melted
right into the
swamp water,
drowning the
witch out of
existence and
into the oven.
Hope the candy
corn crown melts
all over her
beautiful evil face
I wish I hated
her
and could avoid
the sweetener.
Shivering
in the ochre tub
Shivering slightly in the ochre tub,
He slides deeper into the cool water.
The water echoes onto grouted porcelain,
Drip.
Drip.
The soap pulls from his hands,
Each wrinkled with the hours.
His fingers inch along the rim;
Hears the mumbling voices from behind steamed
glass and,
They come and they come and they come
And they come and they
Come.
His warm feet adhere to hard tile.
At last the plug
Is pulled,
To let the water drain.
Sawdust
I joined you and we walked to the Hollow; the
tree,
in the sacred Hollow, and I gazed at the foot of her,
and smiled, as my eyes slid shut.
Could see the both of us climbing--aspiring, as my
grin widens and trunks grow crooked.
We recline in midsummer green,
or think in silence beneath a Columbus Day palette.
Graying fibers, splintered from the fallen structures of our youth;
I can't dream of a better time,
but it wasn't enough for you; else you couldn't bear it.
And to the ground she fell--
WHIRR WHIRR, the chains spin; harsh industry with sawdust flying,
spinning in infinity with a deafening WHIRR.
So much time is disregarded.
We plummet from her fractured boughs;
THWACK! against the stump you've left,
and everything stays shut.
Hurried back
through
We'd park the car across the street, each Saturday, at 9:00,
And I could put the money into the
meter, spinning and buzzing, most Saturdays.
Daddy-grasping hands with a jolt he guided me
Across the walk, darting cars--
Toward the Post Office, from 1927 with its
bricks ever upward mounting.
Through brass doors such sunless halls; I
Still remember the smell,
not of musty buildings or letters and packages but of,
Of Saturday.
Quick hurried back through brass;
past the bench.
His name was Billington I think, or Billings
Though daddy mentioned this same bench from years before,
I can't remember ever a wrinkle in his skin.
Dressed always in a navy coat, with buttons,
those Shiny brass buttons and
A smile that never frightened me or the little girls;
that even relaxed us as adults
His angled fingers tight around the knob of a cane--
I would tell dad it looked like a bird, but he said
No, it is only made of wood.
Just last night I sat down there, curious or reflective,
But I sprang up suddenly, contorting in homage.
The Downfall of
Mr. Fearless, 12:37 a.m.
the Midnight blue
moon
throws handstands
backwards.
a self impervious to
headlights;
I slip between.
yellow dashes never
feel moonlight;
how could it sting me.
paint is unaware of
asphalt.
it Pushes the heel
of my palm
up through my wrist.
damn the flipside, convex world
bright like a midday daguerreotype fade.
the moon Drudges to expose the dashes.
light pokes my eyes, no longer blue;
it shoves me to the pavement.
strange, I think,
we can walk this line each night
still we feel it.
the sky's fired gray, though not for dusk.
by and by, all our hands
lose their grip, slip from the cracks,
and our feet hit,
should the headlights come or not.