Friday, June 1, 2007

Eddie Kilowatt

morning, love

pastel underwear
twisted and
dropped empty
on the hardwood floor.
I watched her walk
shaky legs to the bathroom,
slight steps in the morning
while I lay in slowing breath, after.
basking in my lion's roar grin
I looked around the foreign room
yawning from a futon not mine, thena few moments later
watched again amazed as she returned
stepping slow with a sheepish grin
faint horizontal lines through the blinds
moved across her body
and our arms and legs fit together
somehow innate
and as she lay again in to me
hair falling in my face
I tried to ignore
the scent of the
well practiced, silent
against my cheek


have you ever
heard someone
cry themselves
to sleep?
it's more distracting


women are great but
they die.
they grow old
stretch out
misplace their teeth
forget their children’s names and
one day
you’re watching how her legs look
standing in front of the sink,
watching her
breasts with weight
as she walks to the cupboard
and the next morning
she wakes up
tells you she has breast cancer
and dies, slowly
wearing a thin
pale blue gown
that never seems to cover her ass.
she's gone.
and all others
are cold stumps,
empty toilets
sitting in an alleyway.
it's a cruel thing they do,
those gods,
making our women suffer
as we wait in the hallway

kitchen table

It’s 4:32 in the morning
I’m sitting in the kitchen
eye sting soft white-not enough
listening to robins outside
through the windows closed
and maybe spring sun peeking
she’s playing with her clit
using a couple of fingers
rubbing like a little girl
curious and clumsy
as I listen to an ugly office wall clock
shuffle its time
left and right
above the door.
I’ll stay in the kitchen
for another cup
with my legs crossed under the table
and let her enjoy herself
while I do the same

3 raw eggs

it is not difficult
to speak of the frailty of humans
habit is stronger than truth
give someone an apple
and how much they throw away when done
will tell you everything you need to know
about their upbringing
when you’ve become a spectator
no longer doing the things
that used to make you feel your pulse,
hang what’s left on your walls
as decoration
so you can remember when you used to
after moving,
I found a note in one of my record crates
that read:
3 raw eggs, serve that up!,
and decided to take it as a challenge
the people with nothing to smile about
will still laugh as though saying “Please kill me.”
every time
when you say “In bed!”
after someone reads their fortune cookie

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Reading "One Grey February" I tasted the bitter blackberry
"Flotsam" floats in a world of unshed tears – so sad, so sadly common.
"at first" he was god then he was nobody – he grew up.
And "Healing" isn’t – it doesn’t even feel like surviving. An ironic title, but the poem speaks heaps. They are all excellent, Vicki.