Wednesday, August 17, 2005


By eight in the morning
all you had to do was sing
and think of ways to keep the neighbors
distracted with your long legs
and rumor of a shirt.

I tell that I cannot find the
part in my hair
as the poker playing dogs in
that ugly poster all look
as though they've broken their pose
and look at me from the side
of their eyes,
pupils full of need and confusion
following the stroked of my comb
while I forge a route, a clean, thin
line of scalp so my hair matches the
way your face flairs red
when I mention that you're singing
makes me drunk with memories with all
the sex I've ever had,

I say this and see you
go up like a match,

You sing in a voice that could
make Heaven confess
to sins that would embarrass Lucifer,
turn deserts green with envy,
make fish grow arms and legs
and new lungs so they
can climb from the brine
and walk a mile for
whatever it is you're serving,
all this makes me weak in the knees,
my bones rattle and I shake
with sensations of oceans
leaving me and making me feel spent
and falling into some
idea of subterranean afterlife

When my cell phone rings
a digital chill of a melody
long in the cruel face of
public domain,

Help me find my part, I ask,
no, you answer,
I have fish to feed and children to teach,
but come here and zip me up
I will be there in a zip I say
you will never see the hand that
makes you late for work.

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