New Little Vines. Here is this week’s array.
a tray of uplifted trite
raised arm palm up the waitress
skimmed it over the empty heads
arrayed across the crowded dining room
the piano the armchair the carpet in the dining room
the arrogances of our past now sold at auction
for much less than we would have imagined
in a foggy oil
peer out at me from their glass jar
beyond caring whether I buy or not
I had a dream last night I went to swat a fly
On the way down the swatter became a hammer
the fly turned into you. Splot. Sorry.
I didn’t know how to tell you
why the cat didn’t care for you
because I didn’t know myself
Do you honestly think the cat ever confides in me?
the wayfarer in his dark cloak arriving
his head too heavy for his shoulders
I’m telling you don’t start crying unless you’re willing
to go all out: splotchy face hiccupping sobs and
snot running out of your nose
in a dream state
the swim team swam the butterfly
up into the rafters and out through the skylight
the unappreciated importance of a seam line
the overlooked risk of its collapse. Results:
I watch the threads part in her too-small evening gown
I kissed her toad lips
my rotund little love my precious rough-skinned darling
Her bulging eyes shine so bright! There is no one like her.
This candy possibly too much of a muchness of caramel?
Of too richer too heaviest too sweetmost?
Of a whatness of nonsense can you be speaking? There is no such thing.
My stick over my shoulder
my bandanna tied up with just what I need
Except for you. Please come with me.
His appeal is bland and flat
a beige kind of electricity
weak and tepid. Not second date material.
Revered One you offer me
a very fancy cup of tea
It must mean something but I beseech you:
disciplined to be
intense and emotionless
the enormous muscle triumphs.
The past starves
locked outside the brain
that once sheltered it in memory
The baker frowns
The bread cracks across its top
How the two of them do look so much alike!
Like singing refrain before verse
Like putting on shoes before socks
She decided to get married then looked for the man.
Words set down in a lost language
On the page opposite
a photo of three anonymous men in suits.
You can see the meaning for yourself. Can you not?
The popularity of the legend
explodes outside the genre.
Tourism. Souvenirs. But does anyone still believe?
the almost-bald guy and his few strands of hair
he washes them beneath a gentle waterfall
a showerhead specially made to cosset feeble follicles
her muddy shoes shedding clods on my living room carpet
and yet she continues across the room –
that is when I knew we were not kindred souls.
small budget and sparse bargains carried home
yet I have found these for you –
a pound of cherries like rubies spilled out on the table
such a lot of dishes to wash
multiples of greasy and sticky
covered in tomato sauce. Ugh.
Which way will your version of revenge
if I grab its knife and twist?
the pen runs across the statistic
back and forth back and forth
its black ink obliterating the red.
His bridge builds a populated unity
composed of many and various sizes and shapes
a miracle of love and engineering
my rolling pin chasing down biscuit dough
around her in circles the cutter hops and jumps
biscuits flying out right and left.
Time has faded and cooled him
there is no telling now the differences between
the outside and the inside of him