"Don't put things off…it may be later than you think."
Spitting lines,
Friday Orange line.
Don’t give a fetty farthing of a fuck,
that you past your prime.
Born of a history,
Not the fault of your misery.
I don’t owe you.
So step off my face.
You ain’t getting shit.
We both born of misery.
I just never learned to dwell there.
Your resume,
bullet points of pity.
You ain’t nothing but a collective rage,
Expecting a payday.
Diffident gods and fate,
Absent.
Wheels in motion,
Tear- filled ocean.
No fucks left to give.
My Dad adored Swiss Cheese.
On hot summer nights,
He would stand in his briefs,
In the darkened kitchen.
Sifting through the sparse contents of a poor family’s fridge.
Determine what was good,
And what had spoiled.
Lighting the second floor apartment from a singular point.
All that cast their view up to our windows,
Saw a silhouette of hunger dancing across drawn window shades.
Shades that moved minimally in the remnants of the minimal Mystic River breeze.
And there, the search continued until the old man arrived at the clandestine deli drawer.
Here the treasure of treasures could be found.
Of an international flair,
At least nominally.
Swiss Cheese produced satiety.
Crinkling plastic wrappers,
Keeping a wolf at bay.
Temporarily.
The sweaty gorge eventually began.
Eating each slice,
At first tenderly,
But, then tearing and jamming.
Witnessing such intimacy between a man and his food was memorable.
If a childhood could be measured and was stretched from samples of Swiss Cheese, to cinnamon-sugared toast, to lazy-man’s lasagna served from a black speckled roasting pan;
Then childhood was a feast.
My Dad adored Swiss Cheese.
And, it turns out…
So do I.
Oh! Shower curtain.
I hate it when you stick to my thigh.
I just soaped up my other half,
Now, you soil my clean side.
Grody, gross, gaunt grotesque.
Cleaning superstition.
Your mildew sheen transferring,
To dermis moist and glistening.
This shower is taking way too long.
My shower curtain, wrath.
The next time I need to clean,
I’ll opt for a whore’s bath.
I often walk by sections of grass,
With my hand out.
The grass tickles my palm and fingers.
I try not to break the blades.
Trying to catch the tangible delicate concrete things.
Too often, I’ve walked by a loved one’s coffin,
With my hand out.
The coffin resists my pressure.
I try to not let it break me.
Trying to catch the tangible monstrous abstract things.
Gentle, and harsh things.
Touching, life and death.
Touching.
Reaching.
Looking.
Finding.
Meaning and meaninglessness.
I dress in bad guy luggage,
I’m not clean generous.
All motives I keep,
Border disingenuous.
