a joke

late one evening, a man, walking into his house, sees a snail slivering across
his door step; the trail drying behind him as he slowly makes his way.

the man picks the snail up and tosses him into the garden, walking inside
he commences his evening activities unmoved.

a year later the same man sees the same snail gliding passively
across the door with reliable fragility. the man picks up

the snail and asks why he is so persistent. the snail looking
up toward the man, stretches its feelers far into the air and replies,

"go fuck yourself."

-

your mouth opens, surging argue. you feed trains
of thought railroad ties and square traces

of kudos; left to their own demise and
not yet understood. you reck syllables,

comforting enough to fuel oil jets speed; flying,
falling ungraceful.

you smoke and lie awake
fretting, thinking foul mouths end swiftly

but can not be controlled. you
can't please them all. so you please few;

candied tongue severed and aimless...
obtuse and unworthy to touch the one you

wish to please the most. you hum dirty floor
blues, swept

away by the next set of wills filling, foaming
cats tails-a cropped candle burning

with no place to drip.

you grow a beard because you think she'll like it,
but it won't pay the bills.

everything blends

everything blends,

plastic blends if you forget
to look-

saying, "everyone gets tired
sometimes." colors

blend, on the skin, ignoring

how to spell blind
and in the trees, when words

can mean death.

dreams blend, in a clouded
mind, that wakes up tired.

wine blends with everything.

we had fun

we had fun without him.

in the streets, and between the
photographs of saints,

left wing martyrs and pie

at what cost do you please him,
feed him deeds, like his mother did-

keeping him young?
he insults the gift before it is given,
with expectations, using

language of bondage and ignoring
the real.

what a child.

The well dressed Apathy takes the bus...

The well dressed Apathy takes the bus headed uptown
with the boys, Cursory and Chance-

chasing girls and a free ride. Using the back
door they always find their way

into the pockets of Luck,

walking in with shoe strings
undone, bagging table scraps, while

tying up loose ends with the one really in

charge. Abusing their fortunes, and walking out
with whatever their knuckles can carry;

these three, grown tall by affect, smile wildly
in the trail of their impassive bane.

To connect outside the fold is cautioned,
feared at worst, allowing the prognostic

smell of mumbled words repeating
soak the air and

leak into my now undrinkable wine.