Same 4 flies today zigzag across
my kitchen air, carrier landings on my yellow chair,
Then, resting I guess. Yes.
contemplating their next move,
their next meal?
Spaghetti, maybe veal.
Who isn’t? Who doesn’t want to eat?
(I pause with finger to temple, waiting to pull the trigger)
There’s something to be said for all the mixing meshing messiness,
the massacres of molecules rinsed out in each sunrise.
We are but poor helpless eyes. In a poor helpless size.
We stand judged by this and that beholder.
However, grateful to stand in the presence of the Almighty.
Life explodes, blooming everywhere.
Wait, something flew into my third eye. Soft dreams? Sharp ideas?
Now I see it. In the stars. Under the stairs. In her stares.
You, behind glass walls
in some glorious classified experiment. (Say too much, I’d have to kill you)
There you grimace, or is it… a faint smile?
Feet standing firmly on a pile of dead computer chips. (Crunchy)
Bless the mother of invention, in her kitchen making toast.
Washing it down with wine, you know,
because we’re all out of coffee.
Still awake. You know what ‘they’ say about idle hands?
Steady now. Put on your socks. Put on your shoes.
Tie hangs loose. Cuff links gleam. What now?
Start searching for clues.
Those chips can be like razors. Full of rapier wit.
Though, One brief tear for barefoot days.
Until you’re cooking eggs on hot cement.
My wife stays in bed while the world moves on its axis,
one day closer to being dead.
Cold water drips from the South Pole, filling up to our knees.
So freezing cold, it’s hot.
She rolls over and says have a bless-ed day!
Eyes close in her faux Yoga pose.
A small kiss stays on the tip of our tongues, like bubble gum breath.
Then, the moment stays put, like a Rembrandt or van Gogh. We’re the envy of my universe.
Something the modern world can’t capture,
Nor can the hottest fires burn away.
Then like bright temblor forces – Armageddon like –
from my back.
My tiny insect legs twitch, within wide hounds tooth trousers, rub together;
Careful! Where you step. And mind the burnt bread crumbs.
Disrobed completely. Not a stitch.
Like the day I came in, flesh charged with emotion,
screaming bloody murder,
joyous for life,
threading tenuous guttural connections, dots, or pages.
Or, like the looping imperfect threads
of my dad’s Singer sewing machine.
I wear the unique skin of this life, each day a different colorful guise,
I say keep ’em guessing. No one cries. No one’s wise.
Today a golden waistcoat.
Threads crossing this way and that way,
All manner of fabric
press deeply into my soul, forever.
Seizing the heartbeat.
Well… you know what I mean.
The newspaper rushes down to meet a grey desperate fragile body
… closer to becoming whole.
So, so, so much closer.