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.

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