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.
in the ochre tub
Shivering slightly in the ochre tub,
He slides deeper into the cool water.
The water echoes onto grouted porcelain,
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
His warm feet adhere to hard tile.
At last the plug
To let the water drain.
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.
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,
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.
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