Tic for Tac

Isn’t it funny how the same X’s and O’s
we use for hugs and kisses
we also use in a strategic game of war
with a wholly finite outcome?
There’s eventually a loser or a draw.
Then they just become exes and ohs.

 

 

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The Inarguable Flowers

You are getting divorced.
Farewell, Congratulations, Welcome Home.
Here, affect this balaclava.
So you put a large bouquet
of pink daisies in a window of full sun.
The daisies are innocent in pinkness,
there are not enough of them,
so tall and wide is the vase.
It is clear crystal, a bellowing
of a bell of tuba mouth,
but only a lip of glass
to support what it’s saying,
or almost so, in being there.
But it is svelte as the heart
of all glass, the desire
to just be silvered, become
a mirror, be done with it.
At least, you think, there is
no ridiculous, portentous
sound such as comes
from a euphonious brass
as morose as that one
can only be, at its orchestral best.
The vase is frugal IKEA,
so let’s intuit a purity of intent,
a touch of the mind of Sweden.

These pink daisies support you
as the sun supports them
now on the stone windowsill
that overlooks the living below,
though the flowers are dead.
Well, not yet. But soon.
Though they are dead,
they sing a sun’s praises,
all the pink daisies,
because the stems they have
would have them finish
what it is they had begun,
and are still quietly drinking,
whatever it is there you give them,
water and an aspirin,
maybe a place to reflect their pinkness,
the city window directly before the units of their faces.

Against Emotion

Sleep, birds or wonder, if you must,
Drowse, wrath, weather on your divan,
Unincorporate, madness, return my marbles
Once scattered in such longing luxury of losing

Velvet crush on stranger couch, flit, avaunt,
Jealousy of legion ants swarming a spat candy,
Darken my kingdom’s confectionary door no more,
Fond icing sugary as men, cupped grace, back off my eyes

Braids of leisure in lover’s hammock arms,
String of lions with hair madly loyal, matted tawn,
Subway of escape at 3 a.m., headlight names,
We must break up, my hothead lover is a Coke machine

someone’s form once left lit in bodily street darkness

so now his engines seize

On a Street Corner, Attempting to Imitate a Wheedling Machine

On a street corner
by the ghost of a bookstore,
we see a grey-tipped man
and young woman breaking up.
She holds him angrily
by lapels his green shirt
does not have.
He is thinking fast
like a doomed machine,
trying to apply updates.
Please do not power off
or unplug your machine.
Let me fix this.
Let me install
just one more
pitiful correction
to your flawed system,
his eyes wet
with useless
brownness beg.
Will the beauty
wait and correctly
power off?
Or will she say
screw this,
do a hard reboot
of her evening
in those sexy little boots,
grind away,
just turn
the broken corner
where all those ghosts
they loved to read
used to live
back when books
and patience
were still alive?
Back when
her boots
meant less.