ain’t nothin’ like sleepin’ butt nekid.
ain’t nothin’ like a full body stretchin’ yawn.
ain’t nothin’ like rollin’ in warm laundry.
ain’t nothin’ like a lazy day.
ain’t nothin’ finishin’ a good book.
ain’t nothin’ like likin’ yourself.
ain’t nothin’ like a good kisser.
ain’t nothin’ like funny Sunday comics.
Archive for February, 1991
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yeah, I like to wander through the blue haze
right before bedtime looking a-
round at all these fuzzy shapes that are way
out of focus and measuring how sleep-
y I am and how tired I am and
how exhausted I am and how ever
else I feel in the repair department.
it’s sort of liquidly buoyed stum-
bling about through blue and orange and purple
fuzz Jello spots feeling woozy and diz-
zy but not quite ready to go wholly
to the dream lands and really wake up and
exert again but you know being just
sort of stoned and content that you’re going to
fall asleep sometime soon and you’re not rush-
ing it so I always like to smile as
I’m trying to think of something to write
about before the locomotive of
the sleep beast pushes my head underwa-
ter again and I relearn how to breathe.
papercuts always feel
like they have salt I.V.s
dripping into them.
once or twice every hour,
after they’ve conveniently
reminded you that they exist,
you have to pull on the skin
around them just to see
how deep they really go
and to count
the specks of foreign material
swimming about in the
questionably healthy clear liquid
building up and
draining out of your fingertip.
newsprint invariably
seeps into your slice;
the surgical incision
that doesn’t quite draw blood
and you can always remember
the zipper sensation
of your skin opening up
when it happened.
hangnails suck
damn damn damn;
what can you do?
hangnails suck.
what? put on
a “band-aid”?
no way, dude-man.
hangnails suck.
a “band-aid”
would wrinkle
the skin all white;
hangnails suck.
how about
some ointment:
“Neosporin”?
hangnails suck.
maybe this
time the grease
won’t trap some hair.
hangnails suck.
rip it off
with your teeth
or some tweezers;
hangnails suck.
let the gross
infected
wound gape open.
hangnails suck.
chew and squeeze
your finger
all day chanting:
hangnails suck.
sand leaves funny footprints
when the tide washes where I walked.
clouds are always changing
above me when I’m not looking.
rocks stop their whispering
even when I sneak up quietly.
candles watch me sadly, alone
when I’m waiting for something to happen.
eyeball ring, wring my finger
with your quiet reminders
of the one who gave you to me
if I lose my sight, help me see.
[der ner ner]
Won’t you take me to…
[der ner ner]
Funkytown?
[der ner ner]
Won’t you take me to…
[der ner ner]
Funkytown?
my newspaper blanket is wet.
I wake to the across-the-street sound
of the rain bird sprinklers capering;
one was whitewashing an aluminum gardening shed.
the stutter of the water
chides me for not wearing my shoes.
He hit her
Across the mouth
With the back of his hand.
I could taste her blood;
Run, salty tears
Her lip bitten, hurt
He stood over her, threatening
Displeased,
Tensed to kick her.
He did.
Sweet Jesus;
I can’t watch,
Disinterested and clinical.
I can’t look away somewhere
Pretending not to see it happen.
The party when on;
He picked her up
And she followed him away.
I bet she has before.
Questions to be Asked of the Closet
Posted: February 11, 1991 in PoetryTags: Closet, Dark, Kiss, Love
it’s dark and she giggles
then tentatively whispers my name;
I stand silent
breathing hard
but oh so quiet,
covered in the blankets of darkness.
again she stretches
to call out my name,
question marks solidifying,
echoing away.
I know exactly where she is,
six inches away;
she’s reaching for me,
asking, yielding.
I could seize her throat
and crush her breath
with a lazy hand;
I could kiss her
here in the dark
and tell her that I love her.
ask the closet.
O little bag of magic rocks:
keep me safe
from scaly hands
and claws under my bed.
keep them away,
those unseen things,
that lurk in the holes in my head.
Untitled Poem #103
Posted: February 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Ocean, Sleep, Tree, Whipped Cream, Wind, Window
I can hear the sound of the ocean
as I float in my sea of whipped cream sheets.
the wind in the trees outside my window
calls me softly
to sleep.
Light Blues
Posted: February 5, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Blue, Eye, Father, Green, Light, Mother, Orange, Red, Yellow
I don’t care for white light any more.
call me vapid scumbag; call me gromore.
I have red and green and blue and yellow
lights; to read by, an orange fellow,
friendly to the eyes and each is good
to set a certain kind of mood.
red for temper, salt and blood
yellow to dapple, caress, and flood
blue is patience, like being underwater
green is crayon, like a mother or father.
who can tell what will happen tomorrow?
what will I drink? what will you do?
how much money would I like to spend on you.
when will I see you and where.
Untitled Poem #102
Posted: February 3, 1991 in PoetryTags: Bones, Frog, Orange, Purple, Sleep, Stars, Wind
patterns of orange and purple
dancing savagely over my eyescape;
distant creatures swaying beyond the veils of sleep.
a windswept cliff of grey,
tough grasses growing squat in the wind,
the sound of the sea rings in my ears as I decide.
the mountains were smoky tonight;
mist drew thick curtains to wetly blind.
trees stirred, restless in the dark like masts and
my breathing becomes slower.
beneath my froglike skin, bones sharpen.
I hear flutes and pipes echoing off stars
through the frames of space.
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