I Was Five

He was sixty,
But five still.

He was a man, grey and balding,

But blue and red could not make purple,
And his A’s were awful U-ish.

His pencil had no ridges, it being

Fat and yellow like his fingers.

Why was mine so thin?

Outside of the school room,

His bellowing, his off-tempo skip,
And laughter-induced slobbering--
All five.

That smile was five

Disguised in costume
As a greying grandfather.

He was the only adult to

Play Tag and play it terribly,
Not knowing what was “it.”

I didn’t know why.

No longer five,

I know.

Cat Lady

Meow mix resonates heavy in her living room,
                Hanging with the sting
Of urine that does not leave the nose easily.

Six bowls like volcanoes vomiting cat food

                Huddled in the kitchen,
The names of one, two, three, four, five, six

Past husbands who, now neatly labeled in

Matching Comic Sans

And lurking in silent furry bodies, rub their

Heads into her legs, purr in ecstasy, and

                Love their provider
(That’s all she really is, ever was, or can be).

But Ronnie will leave, chasing pussy with

Angular yellow eyes and manicured claws.

Charles will impregnate an alley cat prostitute,

Bring home his litter; force her into motherhood.

Richard will fold himself up into a dead fur ball,

Round, hairy, and fat. Bradley will learn to greet

Her only at the crackling of catnip like his namesake

Could only respond to beer bottles chattering.

Due to overfilled testes, Vincent will get testy,

Claw her face while she thinks neuter, neuter.

Benjamin will walk right out the front door she left

Swinging open while bringing in the groceries.

Blue

Another ocean poem: Danger! Danger!
            The danger of people being water
Built up in oceans--A blue collection of hands,

Feet, and shark fins mimicking the Atlantic.

            How much better they look out there at
A comfortable distance from a rocking

Chair on a beach house porch. They’re

            Magnificent at such a separation
With their color exposed, a startling blue,

But how terribly sad they look in a single

            Paper cup filled from the faucet;
Such a pale shade they can’t really

Be called a shade at all. They’re clear,

            And you start to see the emptiness
They try so hard to disguise with blue

Densities; compacted nothings practicing

            Friendly waves that seem to say,
“Come swim. There are no sharks here."

Crossword

14 Across: “Disappointment.”
Grumble, slurp, grumble…
This coffee is disappointing.

It needs sugar. Life needs sugar.

Empty tea-cup eyes need sugar;
Something to sweeten the bitter
Disappointment of blank stares.

12 Down: “Vacuum.”

That loud machine declaring war
Upon cats and dogs in dusty homes.

Or the outside universe of nothingness--

Impossible to familiarize with
In a world buried neck-deep
In the self;
All too singular with
Me’s, My’s, and I’s
To include much else.

8 Down: “Dealey Plaza.”

Kennedy emptied his head
Like spilled spaghetti sauce.

Blood and patriotism on asphalt

Horrified thousands of anxious
American couches. Keep it singular.

Grumble, slurp, grumble, grumble…
Me, My’s, and I’s, and crosswords.

Potato Soup

My eyes fell out in July,
Landed right into my
Potato soup and buoyed
Ooey-gooey eyeball
In a hot steamy brothel
Of chopped chives
And pubic hairs.

Without eyes,

My heart sits like
A loaf of cornbread
To be washed down
By more water
And more blood
And potato soup.

The heat pounds

Its way out of my
Back, And I wish
I could remember
Another recipe.

Knitting Lessons

I’d like to tell
My sweet grandmother
We have plenty in common.

She knits scarves,

Multi-color sweaters,
Wool socks and gloves,
Snow caps.

I knit webs of

“Stay with me’s,”
And they come out
Looking more like
Genitals and orgasms
With a lot of empty
Spaces.

They’re all gifts

That no one wants
To wear.

What A Year

January begins with
A six person smooch.

Faulkner reminds me

Of truth in February.

Bradley Cooper looks

To rent my prison cell
In March.

April dresses itself in

Floating dog head
Horizons.

May flowers

Don’t ever
Flower.

June tosses footballs

In dog shit backyards
And tells me
I should really
Pay attention.
 
July sparkles as usual,
But it’s hardly clean.

August requires
Gallons of Lysol.

September plays

Boy Meets World
On repeat,
But it never gets
Any funnier.

October is horrific

As it should be.

November fills me

With dead bird,
Tips me over
Empty.

December pulls

Love-me-nots
From obnoxiously
Bridal bouquets.

A year,

Car wrecks
Appear pleasant.