--EVERY STEP FORWARD IS A PART OF PERFECTING THE ART OF SMALL TALK SO I NEVER HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING I MIGHT REALLY MEAN
In between the moon and you
a man is taking pictures
of every specie,
logging them in his notebook
using a Dewy Decimal system.
How he has the patience, I do not know.
He classifies you as mundane or indistinguishable.
He says you taste like----.
Where your photo should be
is my faint fingerprint
bearing a crisp hood of blood.
You were supposed to be here.
The table was set,
wine glasses filled,
Coltrane’s trumpet yodeling stoned and brassy.
I had my apologies all in order,
a crease running down each pant leg.
But even the birds have forgotten you now.
The kids ask what’s for breakfast.
They never mention your name
or who you might have been.
The Man On The Train
is missing his arms.
a book rests in his lap--
Sun Tzu’s, “The Art Of War.”
He catches me staring across the aisle,
nods his head and tells me,
“You can never be too prepared.”
The Man In The Mirror
A bad man is staring back at me
in the mirror.
He looks nothing like me.
He’s handsome and svelte,
I know he’s a bad man because he’s mouthing
the lyrics to a Beatle’s song I loathe,
plus he’s flipping me the bird.
He shows up most mornings.
Sometimes he’s hungover.
Sometimes he picks a fight for no reason.
When I tell him to get the fuck out of here,
he shoots me a grin
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”
This stupid fucking moon won’t leave me alone.
Every time I turn around its monocle is bearing down
like a stage light that wants to destroy something.
If I’m the guilty party here,
shouldn’t I be the one to know it?
Anyway, all of my moods are antiquated
and I can’t remember the last time I took the dog out for a walk.
At 7/11 the clerk wearing a turban gives me stinkeye
While mumbles into his shirt pocket wear his cellphone sits.
At the laundry mat all of my quarters are warped and won’t fit into the slots.
At the airport security frisks me and suggests I’m a terrorist.
Back home you talk to yourself for hours while looking at the TV
as if I don’t exist.
During a sex scene on “Days Of Our Lives” I slip into the sofa cushion
like a chameleon and become one of the goose down feathers
while life marches on, steady as ever.