Something
that cuts,
proof of blood
my brother,
is what I seek,
proof of blood
to show me
that living exists
outside of the cage
that is
what it is to be.
On a Day
On a day
like this,
early spring,
when the sun
shines strong
against the back
of your neck
and a chill
still
whispers in the air,
you assume
the form
of a tiger
smashing fruit
under
your dusty paw.
In the evening
when it grows
colder still,
it’s safer
to look
as the polar bear
looks,
a goodly gait
hiding a
terrible weight.
In the deep summer,
when you
as hippopotamus,
play and splash
in a slow stream,
take a moment,
looking at
your reflection,
and wonder
why you
never dream
yourself
a giraffe
or a
flamingo,
plastic tooth pick
thin.
Strike while the irony is hot
Where have all the round faced Polish girls gone?
Wild, I presume, like horses on the plain.
Who can catch them, look them in the mouth
and say,
“Stop here, for a sec”
Your shiny mane enthralls.
Is there a cabin somewhere,
on the rocky cliffs,
with a strong wind,
where we can be miserable together?
All i need, indoors,
is a chair,
a mat to make the ground less hard,
perhaps a bowl and plate and cup
made all of tin.
Make some lumpy stew for us
and i’ll go cut some wood.
and i’ll,
at night,
cram my face between
your long hair
and the whiteness of your neck.
Flying Boxer Briefs
Flying Red Watch
Flying Coins 2
Flying Pennies
Flying Coins 1
Flying $5 chip
Flying Flock of Keys
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