To the blenders at Dairy Queen or why is your skin so hard

I burnt my wrist on the oven, thinking to
much of the beer thats waiting for

me at your place, when this shift is over.

By your place, I mean the bar your always at,
drinking until the lights go up; more drinking

at mine-and its always the same.

If we danced in my kitchen would
you remember?

Cold floor kids like Dairy Queen blenders,
spinning cream and sweetener until

it feels good, and the skin hardens itself-

insides melting and uncompelled.

Can I help the next in line...please?

The Faces

The Faces looked blue behind second hand sunglasses,
walking up Mission St, wondering what
life was like when the

bus was a nickel. The Faces try to hold the night
in their eyes, but can't.

Its on their knees, their sleeves, on the dirty
street torn bags found

rolled up and sticking out of answerable pockets-

obliged to carry god knows what, and other tools
to survive.

The Faces have names but are not spoken, brief
substitutes loaned to them by nature, pose creative

boundaries and spelt wrong,
with syllables swimming through

the air unlingering; dying before my coffee
gets cold.

The Faces breath, but no one seems to care.

Pallid Eyes

When you called me, I couldn't listen
the signal between your phone and

mine gave me mixed feelings of cajole
and being pierced; like when I was

young, feeding thin steal through skin-
watch it dangle there,

a fingertip motif- to be apart
of something.

But no one understood then.

They said Art was for fags, so I
drew a forest in the snow, it's

cold breath weening rain clouds,
and mix precipitation.

So you can understand now, why
I don't listen the first time, or the

second.

because of the fools, with no Art,
and their pallid eyes.