Reduced to an Accidental Roux

From under papyrus he bellows
a crispy barnacle barking,
smug from the pulpit,
growling discordance
exuding disdain
from his academic keep.

Foul she cries at the fragrance,
at flavors unfolding
for an aural tongue to savor,
Bleet!
     Excessive culinary metaphor.
Bleet!
     Unsavory violations!

Bookends of distaste
kinesthetic repugnance,
gustatory incontinence,
what’s a chef of linguistics to do
with the likes of Curmugeon and Shrew.

 

Scraps

I am scraps
of paper
or phrases and random thoughts
an amalgam,
the skin beneath you
a tarmac of macadam and dream

where lips and fingertips land
scratching for purchase
in the scrapple
smoking,
so savory.
the meat that is left
on the bones of these days.

Skin Ridden

I rode hard tonight…
My lasers tracing lanes,
the hiss of rubber…
the thick swoosh of wind
tracking the pulse of my tropical breath.

I rode hard tonight
a stylus trodden on raw paper,
primitive - uncured,
a ripe papyrus
for the teeth off my bite.

I rode hard tonight
to clear my mind,
to flush my cells of you.

Primer

Listen
as the stream chuckles
like eggs cracked upon a griddle,
as the larks and warblers
weave their tapestry of morning song.

Watch
as the graphite recedes
as the spinach dark concedes,
as the crown breaches
the verdancy of dawn.

Feel
the push
the press of night into submission.
gesso, primer
for each canvas painted anew.

 

Middle Class

Neutered and numb
we sit here and stare
at screens and receipts
glass-eyed at Madmen
and Game of Thrones.

Lives in a vise,
captive and mute,
waiting for the reaper
to cut the credit line,
pretending no anvil will fall.

Tens of thousand wait,
decaying slowly - wilting Walter Mittys,
naive hobbits of The Shire
puffing, puffing, blindly
consuming second breakfasts,
trading the other’s greed
for illusions of peace.
Our rape will never stop
even when the eye of Sauron falls.

Occupation

The vacancy is nude
raw
where soil wants a body, new
              flesh
to sooth.

the white is
      stark
a splash of cloud
against fish belly skin,
      bleak
diaphanous linens.

Lay your bones
back
     down in this kitchen
finish
          your meal,
     your appetite for me
come
feed,

come home.

Expiration Date

Flush, we stand
softly wrapped in a mango skin,
in this days’s last smoke, embraced
silhouettes upon the quay.

The bay is choppy, restless,
dull teal and ochre slapping the prows,
the hulls
moaning, gnashing on their moors.

You are leaving.

I can sense it,
as if it rides the breath around us.
The fragrance of parting,
the heavy residue of silence.
That dark remnant of separation,
the sweet rot of good-bye.

 

 

Unrepentant

I am unrepentant
for your puddles,
your 911s,
your hormones,
your deeds.

I am unrepentant
for accepting you
this huddled mass
on a cold slate floor,
shuddering
from the inside of your bones.

I am unrepentant
for holding you,
stroking you
until your spirit was healed,
accepting you,
your chip
your baggage of personal soil.

I am unrepentant
for not judging you,
for my broken heart
for shattered pride.

Souler Equations

I look at your hands - distracted
by their power,
as they flutter, gesturing,
parsing nuance as you speak.
I look at your hands
detached of your instrument - free.

I look at your hands… marveling
at how they can convey
that extension of you - fluid
to the keys, strings, the air,
the visceral voice of a mind,
of a heart - symbiotic.

I look at your hands… reverent.
How does paint leave your soul
in such fantastical journeys?
How does synapse
mate the physics of stroke?
What solves the equations
that lie in our cloud
as it lowers and thickens,
raining song,
spilling shape,
threading ink to this canvas of page.