Vocal Epidemic

The clouds are descending as

I shamefully ask why

The doom settles

On the edge of the tongue,

On a piece of lint on the tip

Of a rolling ballpoint.

The sun ignites

Within the sword’s edge

Double edged, folded a thousand times

Reflecting veritable proof

Of shadow cutting through

Amber lit dusk,

Courier of the lethal curse

Jabbing, stabbing,

While the star shines

In the spark

Of a flint

Winking at the watchful eye

That slays and cuts through the night

Exposing the attempt to strangle

And choke

With verbal redundancy,

As purity of reason 

Gleams and beams

Upon  triangulation.

Dusty Bracket

Manna-King walked into the 300-second grocery store and let those eyes of his settle on the fine-mints and the rough-mints and smooth-mints all the same, for the loving-est Manna-King had his heart set on mint and there would be nothing that could dissuade.

“Holy of holies,” called Manna-King, dressed in sackcloth and razor blades. “Holy of holies,” called Manna-King, looking for the mint that would suit his needs. The 300-second grocery store was clean and well-lighted, and there was a constant hum from the flourescent bulbs overhead, purring and chirping just occasionally to let folks such as Manna-King know they were there. If you do not purr and chirp occasionally there is a chance that folks will forget you are there, and you might just spirit away and dust away and fog away – spirit moves where spirit wills, and the fog and the embers and the dust and the rust and pain and the rain, well they all tell tales that Manna-King will love, placing his single, spindly index finger over those thin, dry lips, as if to say “shush.”

“Shush,” said Manna-King, and a hundred thousand tongues fell silent. Fine-mints, rough-mints, and smooth-mints all perked up and slid to the forefront. Manna-King gropes with his free hand and prays for a warm, warm mint to offer itself up as a sacrificial lamb, bleating and bleeding, bleating and bleeding.

Fine-mints

Rough-mints

Smooth-mints

Mints all the same

sacrificial mint-dish holyland hot potato

in a corncrib dream

300-second grocery

grab it fast and tear it free, for the

fine-mint

rough-mint

smooth-mint

captive glance and captive stance

popping mauve little pills to make the bowel stop leaking

and the head stop throbbing

and the back stop hurting

and the soul stop pounding

pounding and pounding

and pounding away

pounding at the door of the 300-second grocery store

a sacrificial lamb with a constant hum

spirit moves where spirit wills

sacrificial mint-dish holyland hot potato

in a corncrib dream

Manna-King steps lively and Manna-King treads lightly and Manna-King walks and walks and walks, for spirit moves where spirit wills until the sacrificial lamb makes you call it quits and the sackcloth and razor blades get too heavy. Manna-king stares into the mirror; Manna-King stares at a Manna-King grown tired and old.

Manna-King shapeshifts and Manna-King dreams.

Behold, I make all things new.

Blindsight

Gazebo boxers            

Jabbing at air

Sparring with shadows

That are hunting them down

To do their violent dance

At the abandoned pavilion

Drawing an audience

Of few who care

Or even notice the gunshots

In the alley that force

The struggle into the light

While delicate divas

Ride their bikes

In the middle of the sidewalk

Plowing down pedestrians

Laughing at the gunfire

As if this were an everyday

Occurrence,

A mere annoyance

Like a bird

Swooping too close,

Something intangible that is

Only someone else’s problem

Expecting a wide berth

While surrendering none

To the hearth of humanity

While the man

In the upstairs apartment

Watches it all

Fighting his own struggle

With the stinging in his eyes.

Facsimile

The day that I met my clone was rather ordinary since I get used to weird sh*t like that these days even though 

she didn’t look like me or talk like me but I knew that she was the other me because we shared the same first

 name and she had the last name of that guy who wanted to marry me when I was a different me and her son 

was named the name that I wanted to name my son if I ever had one and she went to that same kind of  TV 

con-man church that the guy who wanted to marry me became a preacher at, but all I could think about was 

how he was such a cheap  and sleazy bastard that I wanted to hit him over the head with something lethal so I 

thought that I better not marry him because it’s not only wrong, but I didn’t really want to waste my life in the 

slammer because of him and my clone can have that life with that mess and that sleazebag even though she 

married someone else probably nicer who just shared that same last name and was nothing like that slimy slob 

who lived off other people’s emotions and pity while he polished those gold capped teeth and combed that 

wavy pompadour and waxed his ‘stache and put on that phony smile as he reached into your pocket and 

admired your wallet and I know all about that because he admired my wallet one too many times, so when I 

met my clone, I was just so happy that she was my clone and I was me.

The Winnings

“I’ll take a liver.”

“I’ll up the ante with a kidney and a pancreas.”

“A double? Whoa!!! You lucked out!”

“Are you sure you’re not cheating? Whenever you have an extra pint of blood, you do.”

“I’ll surrender one lung for a heart!”

“Game over. The heart always wins.”

“Yeah, that really sucks. Hee-hee…”

“Fine comment coming from the marrow.”

“So what are you going to do with your extra body parts?”

“Sell them.”

“Hold on to them – you never know when you need extra parts.”

“Are you freakin’ nuts??!! How will you store them?”

“Cryogenic stasis, I suppose.”

“That doesn’t work.”

“How do you know, Mr. Cryogenic Brain?”

“I’m just sayin’ that they don’t last very long without connections!”

“Yeah. We all know about good connections.

“So what about you...in the corner…with all the extra healthy goods?”

“I’m putting them all in my living will, a donation.”

“Bloody hero.”

                                     -In Memory of Frank
                     

IMPULSE

triple soak in a half-cocked desperation

“you ain't mad! you ain't mad”

dripping away and dripping away

shuffle the steam-cloak from your shoulders

shuffle the earth clod shoes to the door

and make a tiled-heart workspace in your throat

where the beater-elves

pound

pound

pound

and work that elfin magic on your tiled-heart workspace

Shoo!

Warm summer winds picking up

Stirring up something in the skies

Listening to the sudden pitter-patter

Of little feet

Falling from the sky

Falling on the roof

Pelting the hood of my car

Windshield blocked,

Sunlight blocking a clear view

Clear day, clear mind

Except for those feet falling from the sky

Crow foot, claw foot,

Big foot, yes, I saw Bigfoot…

Yeti-like and pedicured

Yeti-pedi?

No escape on a clear day

From clear eyes, cat’s claws

Frog feet stomping down,

Stepping down from reality

Sweltering and sweating

Underneath it all

Calling for the parking lot attendant

To make it stop

As negative Nelly and those feet are

Trickling down, sliding down, bearing down

On my faith

Only seeing the palms of those feet

Stomping and tapping

Jumping and jogging

As I wake from

A nap in the park

With a bug on my forehead.