New Little Vines. Here is this week’s array.
swim in the ocean
breathe nothing but turquoise air
through your iridescent gills
the gray shimmer
of the shark
a flick of darkness through the depths and gone
traveled miles and miles to arrive here
to fill your pen with future words
the round eye of the sun
considered the necessary effort and made a decision:
yes, there would be extra summer this year
if you want my opinion
the whole blasted afternoon
was just one dingy sniffle after another
You all know me
the agitated petroleum-motivated
heap of clanking iron that takes you where you want to go?
How about a thank you? Or an oil change?
Calm down, I said, but the panicked syllable
refused to accept the reality of hyphenation
Wouldn’t let go of the rest of the word
came on in waves of pink and red
one saturated throb after another
you go to sleep tonight
dreaming of the perfect shade of ink
you’ll use to write me a love letter tomorrow
I’ll be back in five minutes.
What’s more I can prove it.
Just wait five minutes.
the pink shirt
it was a perfect shade
a sulky city nomad he is
this courier wincing down the sidewalks
arthritis in his big toes
a glass of water on the nightstand
the upper and lower dentures
lying motionless in their hygienic trance
the disapproving teetotaler
wielding a toothpick as a harpoon
skewered the olive in the martini and sucked it inside out
I will squeal small
I will squall call
I will squirm all.
I am a newborn baby.
what stylish chromium hair you have
I said to the well-dressed gentleman
and what did your name say it was?
a sashay through
a stunning matrimonial connective ceremony
only to find ourselves mocked
by the ironic cackle of monogamous wedded bliss
who will pay for this round of juicy prey
if you bite off the hand holding the bait?
just that one faulty somersault caught by the celestial spotlight
and the clerical acrobat came crashing down
coming to rest among the scattered pages of his last sermon
to a prohibitive breadth
right away letting out
a small thin wail of glorified sorrow –
the worn-out wheel of the old wheelbarrow
The thin misshapen doughnut
left alone on the plate all the others gone
too much pathos for even my sentimental heart.
I tipped the plate to the trash.
may I direct your attention to these cunning little raincoats for cats
so captivating and of course waterproof too
(yes, you are just another enthralled sucker, aren’t you?)
Thank you for reading!