Monthly Archives: April 2014

Blinds

Your white dress billows like a jellyfish
plume, tentacle limbs askew, buffeted
by the windy waves beneath the surface
of my gaze. If I stare you down too long
you’ll drown the both of us, disrupt the thin
tension of our infinite possible
futures: look back and I might go under;
ignore my eyes and I might dry out on
this lovely beach and die; gently rock your
lifeboat hips in my direction and I
might forgo all metaphors, lose myself
in the depths of a wet speculation,
imagine it all in reverse, your words
a faint seashell whisper in the morning.

Beach Blanket

Not so much sex on the beach as second
base on a sandy blanket, wet towel
barely concealing the rhythmic movements
of her hand on his manhood roughly ten
feet from where I’m tanning, reading, eating
a peanut butter sandwich. The girl on
her back, straps undone, t-shirt over her
face to protect it from the sun; the guy:
much older, pretending to massage her
shoulders, leaning over her, constantly
checking if the white-haired gentleman to
our left setting out his chair has any
clue what’s going on there, never looking
at me, or maybe knowing I don’t care.

Dough

Rolled oats or miscellaneous other
possible cookie ingredients strewn
across the kitchen counter. Is “strewn” an
oats verb? I assume that there are proper
baking words one would use to describe the
sight of overexcited particles
of half-mixed batter splattered, scattered, or
whatevered. I’m not communicating
myself innately like the baked good I’m
making is able: one clear memory
for the sight of flour on the table; one
for the indelible smell from the hot
oven; another for the taste, homemade;
one for the love of someone feeding you.

Conference Room

Go to sleep and dream three years of a tough
relationship, love the shoe string holding
your two tin cans together, until that
fateful dream day when a stranger arrives
to rob your house, kill your wife, and then die
in the escape, and you’re left to tell the
police the whole thing. Wake up to go pee.
Go to sleep and dream of another lifetime,
a hot tub scene with another lover
completely, devoted to each other
and to the steamy feelings bubbling up
from below the surface, take your love on
the road, a jungle cat in a circus
show, and you don’t know your lines, but that’s fine.

Dust Jacket

To match my dust hat, my dust shirt and tie,
my dust-shined shoes and dirty leather belt,
my dust felt-tipped pen and mustard yellow
notebook, my wood and clay wallet, my dust
socks and dust boxers, my rock monocle,
my grass-stained vest (my very best), my dust
undershirt, my dirt clod cufflinks, chain, and
pocket watch, my mud umbrella, my dust
walking cane with the hidden blade, my dust
cigarette case, my filthy handkerchief,
my dust coat and tails, my dust tux and pale
muck cummerbund, my toxic scotch snifter,
my unwashed, “No, in fact I can’t spare a
buck, mister,” grimace, back from the cleaners.