The Table

always diving out of the sun
into the moon and into the night
that is where we have our fun

where is the monkey
where is the sprite
where is the jiggle that makes my night

every 3000 miles

jeans
no belt
bronze belly skin
loose cotton shirt
clinging
straining
underneath the car
unscrewing
twisting out the bolt
writhing aside
as the oil
dark and sinous
pours out
filling the pan
dirty hands
greasy streaks
sweaty lips
underneath the car

use to be

why is it that I stand
when you call and demand
for my ear or my hand

at least it used to be

but there is no need for me
your wounds are fast in healing
and your self is fast approaching
becoming whole and free

what use is there for crutches
for beards and mustaches
when kisses
and touches
are simple to obtain

the stares and sidelong glances
start to impair
the sense that all is fair

the poems
undo the illusion
that no one gets hurt

and when nothing can be salvaged
from an accounting of what is healthy
and what is not
what questions does one wonder
in the heavy night

the only answer I know
is to let absence and silence
do their soft eroding
on a love neglected and scorned

wind

the wonderful part
the difficult part
is riding the seasonal winds

summer with gales of laughter and vice
feeding and pealing forgetting the price

autumn's gusts simply chill
each step seems up a hill

spring breezes saunter back
days are simple and slack

winter blows cruel storms
frozen wasted on all fronts

in each season I find a home
flying my kite
holding you tight

sound

where is that sound
the one that makes me smile
the one that drives me wild
a chant a rant a ratatatat of grins and giggles
to my ear your voice is candy sprinkles

I try to contain it
but it ends up spilled

I have to demand
for my cup to be filled

with musings and news
of dead things in this world
with jokes and snorts
of critters and dorks

no squeak is too high
no shout too loud
they all make me sigh
where is that sound