Well.

Bit of an empty space there. Here I am again with some stuff. A few short poems I wrote for a class in Fall.

This Carnal Desire

a coin in a pressing machine

cranked through until it comes clean,

the imprint of some mountain

stretching it into an oval,

my love for you

weighs down

until it crushes you

into submission.

Zero Doesn’t Mean Operator Anymore

Automated messages lull me, that sweet

robotic voice- always polite,

never mad that I’ve forgotten my insurance number

again

or when I recite my birth date in a rush

of half crunched potato chips.

We’ve done this before, the old punch

and shuffle of the same monotone

I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please say

or enter your account number

again

I mash the zero hard

a couple times,

but they’re onto that. 

Oh, The Tiny Poem

It has five lines and

five syllables in

one nifty stanza.

Yes, the tiny poem,

It reads rather quick.

I’ll Ravage Your Butt

like a lion tearing

into a gazelle’s

strong meaty

hind quarters.

I will maul

you with a swift

heavy paw

and delight

in your flesh.

In Dreams

Perhaps I’ll be standing at the top of a life guard tower, shielding my eyes from the sun glittering off the waves.  Larger than life sea shells, starfish twinkling at the bottom of the turquoise clear water.

Perhaps I’ll sputter as chewed up sunflower husks fall from the ceiling, speckling my face.

Perhaps a lady made mostly of oblivious white hair will attack me with her strong arm, but Homer Simpson will save my life.

Perhaps I’ll stumble home at 4am and wash a bowl of uncooked rice, like I did that time someone gave me a pill.

Perhaps there will be a race with plump vampires climbing a steep wall, a vertical real life version of Frogger.

Perhaps I’ll lay frozen, a hunk of flesh, while the room is washed in television fuzz, as the room glares too white.

Perhaps a blackened lemon wedge will poison the world as it gets tossed from one unassuming salad to the next, with me following the acrid trail of destruction.

Perhaps I’ll have the world on dvd.  Play the same moment in a broken record sort of way until I can manage to squeeze through a fence, just barely escaping.

Perhaps a lady will stand at my feet clenching and unclenching her hands, like she’s gearing up to smack me.

Perhaps I’ll be standing at the sink when a girl, skimpy in her slinky gold bodysuit, will let her lush tits spill from the skin tight fabric and piss all over the floor, like the two boys did before her.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake up with visions of skunks sweeping their tails to a choreographed showtune the way I did today.

First Fridays

I’m standing at the fleshless claws of some long dead dinosaurs.

One a hulking array of bones cut short at the arms.

The other a stout skeleton under a tri-tipped crest.

I’ve got a heavy handed drink cut sparingly with cranberry. 

A sliver of lime pinched between fingertips.  My face feels the flush

A flutter of warmth to my bones.

There’s a dj in the African Mammal Room.  Way at the end of the hall,

The stuffed leather of a mother elephant stays rooted to her spot

While her babies in their own stiff stance lift their trunks to play.

Over in the Whale Room.  A loose crowd hangs back,

Watching a boy in yellow get down by himself.  And the whale

is hang drying from the ceiling, the oontz oontz of the dj vibrating

Each colossal bone.