Poetry

Jack and Berniece Are Making Sense

Berniece is gonna 

        fall in love,

and
that's a grass stain

she can't feel 
spreading thru denim.

Jack has been thinking 
            about

a
  thoughtful note

penned with
a peice of charcoal

to prove the point-
 

when
I went to digress,

     he offered a smile 
so wrinkled 

and sad,
I decided 

   to just let things 
fall where they may.

 
another pot of coffee

    for the kids
and a

honey glazed doughnut
for me,

 
please.

Tonguing Wounds From Insatiable Bites

you blinked

in subtle shades of gray,

poorly lit space,
       wrapped to see the

warp of rooms.
 

I remember
bloodshot eyes

   between apectacular intervals
of sun thru plastic slats,

a warm smell of 
newly cut sapplings

and
your sundress tangled

in the same curious
angle of bellyaches,

collapsed 
around your waist-

 
inhaled silence 

under a wrinkled garment.

A Lunar Shot To The Solar Plexus

still and

   pressed,
burning stictches

on broken fingers
   that keeps

inky artifacts
of attractive flesh,

    like lips over gums,
hidden teethwork

 molded from a gorgeous clay. 

yet,
we took stain

under rusty concussion
lamplight,

exhaused color
and stood,


reduced

to a scrawl
of uneven handwriting,

knees bent,
mind furrowed.