-Repeat Minus the Lather-

As if it were bricklaying or
an onion we could dice and
caramelize with olive oil

we imagine it facebook-eventable
but peace is a memory problem.
It fades. We repeat it to ourselves,
we repeat it charbroiled.

Already it slipped my mind
how my stomach goes
hydroelectric at the top of a swing
chainrust squeezed into my palms
rubber seat arching.
Zoom in on sky, ground

pans out.
And I have to hear peace
again when later I’m impaling
at my keyboard. That cursor
blinks, like a crow molting.
Blankness in its feathers.

I go off to smite against a wall.
Come back incorporeal,
and peace is whispering
something slow and tree sap
and I miss it. Preoccupied by
the branches and rootwars

the concrete on the curb
cracking upward.
Peace, even carved lavishly in
constipated rage
on a bathroom wall
is forgettable.

  

-Word Choice and Meaning-

She said he had an infectious smile
as if the take-over
were the only importance.
Sure, we all turned up our maws,
but did we fester? Invade?
Did we swell and pustulate?
I wonder if he really
had a six courses antibiotics smile.

I don’t tell her how
leavened bread
might not corrode her face.
It wouldn’t hurt to have
a jingle you hum
to the widening fog while
washing the dishes smile.
He might be more

worth her while if his
grin was a chocolate craving.
You could say his
simpers open a six pack
and put briquets on the grill.

It’s the headwaters of a spring
burbling away a swelter in August.
Or simply a woosh.

But she has already moved on
to jumping about pancakes
and hair follicles.
The infectious smile creepnumbing
my heels for amputation.

  

-Community-

These doughnuts are spelled with an “ugh!”
and were mine. But they are
are pinkening Sara’s fingers,
and I suspect the cinnamon twist
of Ben-shaped treason.

Last Tuesday, dishes began
their own grazing
and I’m pretty sure it is not
my turn to wrangle them from pasture.

I do not know how oregano
sprouted from our ceiling.
In a few weeks, when it hangs low
enough, I will ask if it belongs
to anyone. Then

clip some for eggs.
The best is when we’re all
postured as if we had a sofa.
Legs comfortably skewing.
Our palms taking charcoal rubbings
of the carpet. Overstiff elbows.

Once Ben had the idea
that all windowsills were Baptist
Preachers…the first steps
toward the light.
Sara said he was

transcendental. And I just
swallowed my bagel
where it sponged uncomfortably
in my esophagus.

  

-Sunny Vignettes-

The sun plays
doubles on a clay court,
while I open.

Condensation
marches an upheaval-
sun closes blinds.

Thumbs on
antipasto plate scraping
crumbs into trash.

Sun rafters
support only dust,
contractors worry.

Place the eggs
next to the watermelon.
Wait, leave them in the basket.

Wary of its reflection,
sun shatters ocean
in disgust. Orders tequila.

She wears plaid
and is not afraid
of overalls.

A flat tire
and we are baffled
by the carjack.

Sun dry is
tamer than the sundry
it sunders.

Can’t carry
a sun with only
crash cymbals.

Oak branches
crease and fold
effulgent origami.

Coffee is
sun’s shadowself
only warming inward.

His galoshes
and duckprint
boxers.

  

-Tangle of Ivy-

When did formicating vines,
their unrelenting hugs
and suckerroots
pall in our imaginations

to price cuts
and overlit mall floors?
A plastic mold
with five pushbutton
pow!action movements

may be a choking hazard
to tall children
under the age of hypnosis.
It only costs something
that ends in nine and looks small
like millions of chemicals
and the livelihood of
faraway folk
cents.

But it will never be as fun
as letting a slug beslime
Kelly’s arm when she’s
distracted and

the following guffaw-shrieking.
Somewhere we lost it,
the hours worth dirt digging.
And we switched to
touchscreens.

We no longer mind the vines,
what they strangle.
It actually looks kind of nice
there against the brick,
corroding.

There isn’t a victory.
General Tzo marching
and the toppling of a Wal.
No one has

decided. We only quiet.
Settle our bloodwort
in disinfectant.
And we go shopping.

The vines dream of us instead.

  

-Just Outside for a Breath of Fresh Air-

Our memories take out
their kazoos. A buzz,
maybe it went humm humm.
But the tune is in there,
this tin membranophone.
I lean back and let the
chipped paint railing
bend under my hands.
And someone can’t make
it go, puffing their cheeks.
I tell them it uses your voice;
a synapse connects,
they relax and go timbral.
We were figuring if
we poured enough foam
down our throats,
something would burble
up. Make a claxon. And be free.
But the string section
has lapsed. Horsehair
bows tangled with splinter
and misdirection. There is
half a violin
vibrating no more.
And just edging the proscenium
there’s a fuzzy…it could have been
clarinet, but it shouldn’t bend that way
when headlights flash past
and a red metal squeaks around.
I am now thinking it’s just a ketchup bottle;
some tomato harmony stuck inside
refusing to cover my fries.
And then trumpets, but they
drown out whatever started us
thrumming.
Then we drop the orchestra,
leave it to collect with oil
and muckwater in the parking lot.
A neon sign singing,
and the asphalt claps and thinks it
may have heard that one before
once on the radio.

  

-13 Reasons You Won’t Believe-

What happens next to
this dog chewing a garden hose?

Even a stick of butter
has no yellow lipids if it isn’t part numbered list;

it will grease none of your pans,
nor be largehips good on toast

because it is not worth enough up.
Spreading with knives

is something you need to unlearn.
Every trend says smothering is now done by survey.

What did you get? I have a scone,
baked with craisins. It means I am hungry

and Virgo is rising in my vanilla latte.
I have seismic eyes, my friends will be large thumbs.

The hose turns on, flails. Dog is cute and
drools like youtube.

And you won’t click on this.
I know because I used denial and second person.

Plastic is killing. So are you.
Who will guess what new

crumble will fall from my scone
or if my plate will catch it.