--EVERY STEP FORWARD IS A PART OF PERFECTING THE ART OF SMALL TALK SO I NEVER HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING I MIGHT REALLY MEAN

Cartographer

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.

  

 Unreconciled

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,

maybe Swedish.

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

and says,

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Paranoia

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.