63/365: a walk to the end of the universe (published in the Loch Raven Review)

if you walk to the end of the universe
come barefoot
out of respect, but also
because there's this great beach there.

you'll find me wearing a broad brimmed hat,
making sand castles from stars

the Titans run around nude
so don't be shocked
(and don't stare -
they'll know you're American
if you do)

when you come,
barefoot of course,
we'll walk down to where the river of time
pours over the edge of the abyss

but before we do
happy hour is from 3-6,
and the special is always
green appletinis
at Milton's Pub and Grille.

a raven sits at the bar
on a perch of olive
telling everyone who comes by
that he's never going back

62/365: A little drink

They like a little drink, too
the sprinkler man says
hands on his hips
surveying my back yard.
he is speaking of the Mexican palms
and the fan palms.
this is a thing I have not thought before
in a way I have not thought before.

He speaks of bringing water into zones
with biblical reverence.
it is clear he is an artist
of sprinkler systems.

64/365: don't feed the ghosts

don't feed the ghosts,
at least not with poems,
it only makes them come around more often.
like the Louisiana woman
who used to feed the alligator in her back yard -
then found it on to her porch,
peering in through the screen door.

teeth and tail
they get stronger with each line,
each clever metaphor
comparing them to something living.
you'll wake up with them sitting on your chest
clawed feet pressing through the sheets
into your breasts and stomach,
yellow eyes staring.

feed them enough
and one day they will roll you under the water
with a lashing splash
leaving only scribbled journal pages
bobbing on the surface.

61/365: care and feeding of demons

demons are the stuff of strangled dreams -
crib dead, aborted -
they speak to us in sonorous
blue
and bloody tones;
they walk in forms made
from the husks of desire and lust.

one-handed, we feed them
from our radial artery -
all while we wail about injustice
and point about meaningfully
with the other hand.

this is the price of life support
for a thing we cannot let die.

72/365: John's Story: Seeing Her

when she came out to pick up the milk
that's when I saw her
bending over the tin box, flipping the lid
in her green silk housecoat

green like a fairy forest
where you might be lost forever
and no one would go in to look for you
because you would be gone.

I tried not to see her
really
but I couldn't not.

and I couldn't not think about her hips
afterward
and the ribbon that wrapped around her waist
that held the gown closed -
kept all the secrets hidden -
just one knot

I couldn't not undo it with my brains -
as I drove along my route,
house to house, door to door

nothing but the curls of her black hair

I couldn't shake it out
couldn't smoke it out
couldn't tell anyone cause
I don't have the words.
No one has the words for that.

60/365: coin

the coin upon my tongue is electric metal.

heads, guilt and shame,
tails, humiliation.

your hand on my chin, closing my lips.

59/365: God made me, too

God made the birds in the trees
The fishes in the stream
And of course the puppies and kittens
And little children.
And me,
My demon adds,
with a grin on her too-small mouth
with its bone crushing, perfectly white teeth.
And me.