spit

Everytime I attempt to fry potatoes, the two inches or so of bristling oil bites me all over like invisible jumping spiders and I end up with tiny red bumps over my hands and grease in my stomach which probably at one time or another was a symptom of the plague...or witchery. Or beating the plague with witchery.

When I was younger than I am now I told my little sister that when I got very old (older than I am now) I would simply decide not to die. Because I envisioned myself knowing the moment. A slow build to an eventual and very aged end. I could not conceive of being unable to refuse death. And now, I can not exactly conceive of the words to make this nonsense make sense...

Yellow oil spider bites come fast. Spit. Shit. Pop and hiss. Oh. I imagine most things are actually like that.

Hello and ha

You there.
Reader...hey
Hello
Read this poem.
Welcome to my poem.
Read this poem.

I address you
Because I feel if I do not, my words will dilute
like a drunken, chattering piano
Coughing over
an echoing lobby
of their own meaning
chords of clashing conversation

about men
or women
or women wanting men
or men wanting...what?

This is a poem.
Not a description of anything
Really.
Except a page,
and words
and that lobby I mentioned earlier.

Condemn it if you wish,
but understand
it doesn't even involve paper at this point,
and therefore cannot be torn.
Ha.

crack

the treasure at the bottom
of a Cracker Jack box
is a tiny white bone
cracked and moonshaped
the size of a tooth
it has bits of fur
clinging to it
and an uneasy smile made up
of caramel sugar and sick,
misleading shadow
i ate it along with the popcorn
not realizing what it was
until after i swallowed
and i may not have Xray eyes
or a brightly lit aquarium
stomach
but i know it's in there
resting against my soft walls
and busy being absorbed
a little slower than all that other shit