To Samuel Amadon
Be honest Sam, how bares your bow to storm
when hinge has formed & firs are cloying hest?
The bold tock-hobby to the fight informs
both novel heathers & an uddered chest.
Here's the cold shock: with bottles & bread crumbs
thrust to the bends, you teem to hike for less
than stows; you hook about for spittle numbs,
kept stout by spittle tokes till dours ingrow.
The figs beat in the sky, the brookman shuns
you, scuttle boy. Fresh come, he's best to know
how sprockets sop & claw where lazes glow.
He books at the few embers thrust hay-bound;
he pots with fissures, lets hoods lorry blue,
hands back the pliant still, then skies it through.
-previously published at Typo Mag
I' ll tell you that butcher better press
his robes if he wants me to eat more
Agneses with or without onion salt
they do me a number even after five
flatbreads I first boil in butter for safe
passage past the inner sores I'm scoring
up again with help from the Doc's
sharp port that damn Doc sure keeps
my heart leering liquor fast to ensure
his parlor visits where he wrist-holds
my darling hound who I'd call smitten
as the mutt helps belt chest to couch
& it's him I could give a thrash about
& will once that butcher chops me out.
Molars On A Tinfoil Carpet
Angels don't descend on business these days
& even if they did I've no hope you'd look one
back since this age a wife don't consider eating
herself foot to head so proper or safe as we've
long made this o-snake three tales too overfed.
But soon we'll find a yellow labyrinth that lines
double straight where a chance gear may hunger.
Again today your smoke tastes like apple coat. I
fear poison & calmly employ the office boy with
papers to be delivered as means of a knife
not by my choice but as second answer after
the cake shop alerted my boy that their last nail
was sold. Stay me now what else to hold when
doubtful's the likelihood come to salt.
Prescriptions & Eyeballs
Would anyone expect me not to entertain a set
of expected guests? Should I've stayed shut in
my bed-hole as the hours traded their number?
No I drank the scotch & ate the bread & swapped
shop with the middle-watch over a rolled dollar.
We shot through three decks of miserable cards
as Omaha poker always ends up deteriorating to
a burning contest that I lost by holding matches
against the bearers of oil lamps & as the ashes
fell all over I knew debris would worry my feet
when the morning came but then again the day
had come by then & my worries were as worn
through as old lungs ever allow them to become
& so goodnight & I set my head & counted one.
-All poems previously published at La Petite Zine