August 10, 2014

a month of Sunday poems...

dining on conventions and pocket knives

mentions of a beauty queen
that liked it rough once
no one knew she wore
the crown, somehow
we all pick up the pieces
of what beaten bones
Hunter S. Thompson stole into
the death of the American dream
smells like gasoline and unabashed go

we still dream
here in America
but it ain't
the same rasp
against soft skin
asking for a salve
that it once was

those of us here
bleed freely
paying price-bandages
designed as death’s clothing
weary, might we be
we allow mouths
to feel our edges
sledge-hammering velvets
rampart wildebeests and
blind lemming drives
to oceans waiting

thirsty as we are
salt will not save us per se
but it will keep tomatoes
in a jar all winter long

a soul is buoyancy
essence preserved
shell, albumen
and yolk
a light lunch
a little radicchio and endive
a little green onion curry
stirred into the eggs and
please toast the muffin lightly
the tomatoes I’ve stewed gently
with some Riesling and roasted garlic
chiffonade of lemon basil
as a finish and presentation
somewhere a betty boop-esque cigarette maiden
is offering me iniquity, I smile and tell her
I prefer the naughty girl blow job routine…


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