Broken Record

Menthol state of mind

hidden behind a cardboard

fortress of papertude

day-dreaming about

day-dreaming

missing the sound of

clicking keys

squeaky tires

feminine laughter

three plus years later

and play it again, Sam

I never tire of remembering

the remembering of

you.

Can't Quit You

I tried

I really did

Walked away for all of four hours

blurry and blustery
kicking cats and daydreaming WWF style
staring out a bloodshot bulb
angry that someone might want to know
if we have Mitchner
if I could recommend a good cookbook

Fuck You Mitchner!!
Fuck You Cookbook!!

And Fuck You, Coffee, you beautiful bitch
because as much as I try
your the Heath to my Gyllenhaal

and I just can't quit you.

Replacement

glassy-eyed mocha's

needles in the crook

stacks of idiot's orange & white

and these fingers are numb

tapping saxophone lips

laughing in circles

spinning repetitive wheelies

on dusty conversations

in the daytime dark.

Counter Girl

Ganesha has nothing on me
and I pet your choice of
Christian Fic and YA Novels

Not quite special enough for
the weekly Wednesday
meetings

But oh do I like a challenge

Standing alone in my element
books and people
random encounters
possibilities out the
proverbial yin-yang

And then it's done
no one noticed
and I'm driving back
to where the quiet ones
come from

It's only a year in the life
and I fade, like I always do
in the background of
your
his
her
day-to-every single of my lifetime

until they ask for me
two months later
wondering where she went
so smiley
so helpful
so good at being
what they wanted
what they needed
what they didn't know they had

until it was gone.

Gift Horse

my face is hot

but you gave me freezer lemonade

served appropriately in a

mason jar

and I could take off my

skin, leave it in a puddle

on the warehouse floor

rummage in the dirty records

bare bone and a

stupid grin

mere elements of flesh

left dwelling in that glass

until someone finished me

or poured me out

letting me dance in their

digestive juices or get absorbed

by the Tuesday sun

grizzly gravy to your pro-offered

token, odd dwellings of a

macabre mind

but I think I'll pass

I don't want you to think me

forward, flesh being a

hot topic and I'm not really

all that thirsty anymore

anyway.

Circular

Barielles smoking in my ear

closing me up

mason on your shelf

wanting to be discarded in

ditch trail sunshine and

murky water

confections evade me

promises of this week

or maybe next

or maybe next

until its 5am

in the dark stacks

loneliness left for

last years girl

tomorrow's who knows

where

and yes, Mark, we are indeed

living dead.