Plastic Daffodils
Peerless silhouette before the window,
she is the Intersection Queen –
the arbitrary guard of a northwestern margin,
draped in a floor-length fur and thrift store jeans.
The insubordinate rendition of Renoir’s pasty bathing babe,
her pin-straight locks are washed each day in gasoline.
She is Fitzgerald’s young Bernice –
a prepubescent devil laughing in the moonlit street.
She is a sweating teen in silver glitter,
pale collarbones in polyester frills.
My muse, my nameless, iridescent resident
of in-betweens, forever dancing
to the rattle of the urban breeze
shaking her rows of plastic daffodils.
Just Tell People We Met at Walmart
(as told by the gentlemen of Tinder)
A living testimony of the works
of God. Can you imagine
what I’m about to do?
I have lived in all four corners
of the Continental United States.
I brake for squirrels and rabbits. I like
breakfast food and dark-haired women. I breed
prize-winning clams. A classically-trained chef
with cowboy roots and ninja aspirations.
Sundial enthusiast. An anachronism
with an affinity for the absurd. Delightfully
awkward stoner. Staunch advocate of gluten,
foie gras, and chicken nuggets. 2Chainz
is today’s Aristotle. Law school. Baseball,
motorcycles, dogs, music. Life’s too short
not to put cheese on everything. Mountains,
trains, sour beer, vintage boats. Mark Twain.
Real estate, fitness, family, God, $$$.
Jedi in the streets, Sith in the sheets.
Message me if you love to laugh.
Also looking for a tennis partner.
This is a reverse catfish.
Dibs on the little spoon.
Digging
When winter winds took hold of autumn,
again her body raced to Jane,
the sacred saccharine of Mary,
sweet seedling sown in her terrain.
There, with her chemical au pair—
fat tick upon the neck’s sweet vein.
She cloaks the skeletons in velvet,
disguises dirt with purple rain.
Sedated, gestures to the vacant bed.
Serrated posts give warning
to the heart and head.
She hesitates, half-naked and
presumed half-dead.
The sky persists, traversing
fissures in the windowpane.
The Learning Curve
Each word the world has heard
unfolds in decadent disorder.
Titanic tides submerge the space
between the meeting of the eyes,
immerse the frailest of the bones, convene
along the vertebrae of mirrored spines,
reverse the course of blood, and leave
the body be. So we converse
in dialects we do not speak,
instruct these hollow lungs
on what it means to breathe.
We are not weak, for
we are with the world,
and that makes three.