One New Message

Hey Uncle Gerard-

Sorry about this afternoon and the whole hot dog up your nose thing. And the mustard in the moustache. And the barbecue sauce in the beard. And sorry about Kafka eating it right off your face. You were a good sport about the whole thing, but I still wanted to let you know how sorry I was. I’ll see you next week at the shuttle launch. You bring the bananas, I’ll bring the souffle.

“Who’s Gonna Fuck You When You’re Dead?”

is certainly the best thing I’ve overheard
so I can’t take credit for it
but I can relay the splendor to you
and we can both laugh and chuckle

the couple was gone down the street
before I could react
they were incredibly fast walkers
for being so grey and poorly dressed

but what the man said
in that moment
has stuck with me for ten years
and by now the guy is a wise sage
in the rolodex of my memories

(published in Madswirl)

Cabin Fever

 

The spine of the snow worm
clings to the molded wooden railing

patterned ice vertebrae
of ovals spiraling away
refracting light onto the beige siding

and a shadow of season’s death
still being chewed in it’s frozen jaws
falls toward the pit of my stomach
spreading cold rock panic

2.

They found him
eighty-six years and thawing
negative twenty wind chills
stole his breath-
his son claimed he had Alzheimer’s
but others know better
being permanent residents of Michigan
and all

3.

We aren’t supposed to be here
and those who could migrate
did

There’s always death in the air
‘round this time of year

the brave hunker down
blow their noses
and wait for the finish

Church of the Whooshay

cue:
Kenny G
“Songbird”

read slowly:

(The pinnacle of our society:
the supermarket)

we all come together
over toothpaste
woks
and reduced-price DVDs

we all walk the walk
of the fluorescent aisles

we all talk the talk
of green
plastic
and food stamps

we pray as one
over the checkout lane
hands reaching for wallets

we go to one
that’s the same as
the next one
and the next one

we are held together
by the mystical power
of purchase

we are ushered in
by the invisible hand
of the Whooshay

we pray to him
and load our carts
to our favorite songs
quietly piped in