Shelf Life

Talking about the days eyes

pink, herbaceous, double blooms

and the kingdom of bondmen

or the use of weird [fate] ziplock.

The canny lasses pass us by

leaving faint traces of smile.

We are interesting mannerisms

to the eyes of night, in the mixed

behavior of genetic produce or

lait caillé, MA. Dust settling on

a lightbulb in the supermarket aisle

[dreams of pushing my son around

canned food that does not expire].

Smoldering tobacco trance, the waltz

of fumes and days like old jewels

laying there as if digesting mice.

Expiry dated, unadulterated good,

a chapter of bringing charm to nether

perfected as the summer ends, sibilant

in the dairy section of a ghostly train.

Obviousness

Things speakable and things

unspeakable, untiring and

un-painful strife, battles and

slaughterings of men. Piercing

[cries?] of horses, mortals [on

the beach?] warms good things

[mixed?] with evil... two to me

both. Gold greatly angered being

burned by blazing fire, having

kindled. Sea-faring the wave

[or the noisy sea?] in war and

might. One after the other and

these things... Gold.

I never talk to strangers

Era você que cheirava cola a beira-mar e

me oferecia o paraíso numa latinha de Coca-Cola?

If yes, onde estão os meus 100 dólares pela uma

hora de conversa, Sing-Sing?

Questions of matter

What is it you like, short legs,

keeping my arm from moving

like that, in groins or your head?

Was is it you want, red head,

when you move in closer to

the warm palm of my hand?

What is it you do, upper lip,

when you open up in smile

not telling me the real kick?

What is it you are, John Keats,

always there in my throat

like a lump of meat?

Whatever you are, these things,

questions of flesh, blurred vision of old?

I'll have to find out by another means.

Breakfast

Here we are - 135 north 5th St.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York,

for your first heap of freshly picked

strawberries from south Jersey

and 2 eggs, any style. maybe Benedict,

and a side of grits. Above Mason-Dixon

caramelized grape-fruit with mint.

Some milk? Dairy or Mimosas? You

do like sparkling things [this month?]. I know,

fig jam and brioche. Few words for breakfast

and something about the light in June. "I'm

not hungry" - I frown as you examine the

plate for any leftover food. I'm hot, I'm

the dad [the silent type]. And you look

lovely today, napkin on your lap, as the

sun flickers over the butter knife.

You know who I am

You do right? Time and walking lengths

some of the fear of Spain, you have none,

you chose the living, at a very young age.

Who is leading anyway? The dog or thee.

The very understanding of the world, me

the cloud-dump, the cancerous lung the

vent frais of yet another matin inbred.

You know who I am and you like that

and I like that, oh how I like that. You

know it by heart, and the shape of recasts

regurgitate. For me, at me, from to place

is now, peut-être. You know me. Maybe

you do. I have the dead, you eat them,

your move, but I guess I ate them too.

You know who I am, this winter icing

over powderburn [that was confessing]

to the crime I've earned. Guilty to have

led you here, turbulent, induced body,

translator of one language to other than me.

You know who I am, nickel and sweat and

copper. C'era una volta, you know that too.

You know who I am and I like that your seas

are as black and as deep as the ones I can be

in this place where I am and you know who.