Leftover Lament
Here I sit
in the back
of the fridge
waiting
for the sudden light
a distant face
a rummaging hand
then rapture
the lo mein left yesterday
the pizza box was taken today
I’d rather be consumed
than tossed for slow decay
Here— in the back
of the frig
Written for today’s Living Poetry Prompt.
Last Meal
From death row
I want my last meal
to be Thanksgiving
A crackling brown turkey
carved by my father
with a serrated knife
my mother prefers
the tasty dark meat
give me the juicy white
my brother mixed stuffing
with his bare hands
spiced with too much sage
lumpy mashed potatoes
still with the skins
salt pepper and butter
Passing serving plates
heaped with memory
grandmother to granddaughter
uncles to nephews
cousins to cousins to cousins
it’s the stories
I remember
more than the food
For dessert
the proverbial pumpkin pie
nutmeg and whipped cream
and my family busts me out
just before midnight
(Inspired by this week’s Living Poetry Prompt. Happy Thanksgiving!)
New moon smiles in the west
Her majesty escorted by two giants
All around the world poets swoon
At twilight tonight and tomorrow, check out the western sky and you’ll see the crescent moon with two bright stars, which are the planets Jupiter and Saturn. Here’s wishing you Clear Skies!
She reads by moonlight—
real books of ink and paper.
She watches television
with the sound off.
She leaves Spotify running
as she fades to sleep—
volume low as a blanket
so she’ll dream her own songs.
She loves my poetry but never
wants to meet the poet.
She’d rather fill in the gaps
with her imagination.
I’d just destroy her image of me
with my mundane reality.
Moriarty
I’ve got a roommate
an old tomcat
don’t know his name
but I call him Moriarty
he doesn’t seem to mind
We used to leave the apartment
together after twilight
go about our separate businesses
in back alleys
and dank clubs
We’d usually return
around dawn— drunk
missing a chunk of an ear
but then they closed the bars
because of some damned virus
I thought alcohol
was antiseptic
Doc says the crap
I drink is killing me
burning a hole in my gut
like a cigarette snuffed
out on a wedding dress
And the crap I eat
is clogging my arteries
like gunpowder
in the cellars of parliament
just ready to blow
Tattooed on my chest
are the words:
do not resuscitate
if found on the floor
of a strip club
but they’ve closed them down too
so I guess I’ll just die here
It could be worse
I’ve repaired my old turntable
so I can play some decent jazz
I’ve got a freezer full of bottles
and a case of TUMS® under the sink
the shades are drawn
for eternal twilight
I’ll hold on as long as I can
I still let Moriarty roam
these emptied streets
there’s this hot calico
sniffing around the dumpsters
under my fire escape
so there’s still mischief
to be had in a world
even without me
Blue Magick
I call upon the spirits of light,
the angels of constitutional democracy,
of reasonable policy based upon science,
I humbly beseech you: Arise!
Cast out the demons of fear and corruption.
Break the curse of dark money, lies and hatred.
Free us from willful ignorance so we may cast
our votes as a spell upon the government.
Let us attend the sacred polling place,
dance naked ’round the voting booth,
sing songs of truth and good governance
that we may restore our fair country,
sliding my ballot into the holy box,
the Great Rite of Democracy.
What Dreams May Come
I wake up in a film noir bedroom—
streetlamp shadows on my ceiling.
I dreamt not of being chased
but of chasing, of attacking—
of taking primitive pleasure
from the feel of a face
under my fist, the taste
of someone else’s blood
on my knuckles,
the satisfying slish of a knife
penetrating a plump belly,
the recoil of a rifle
against my shoulder
and the head of a stranger
in my sights exploding.
I stumble to the bathroom,
flip the light,
splash water on my face
in the dirty mirror,
hair estranged,
stubble like tombstones,
I look guilty as hell
and wonder out of which circle
that nightmare slouched.
Happy Halloween!
Washington still smells like a swamp.
We send living representatives
to dredge out the grime
but they die from the stench
and we keep re-electing their corpses.
If you want change— change your vote.
Even if he’s from your tribe,
if he’s been there long enough,
he’s lost whole fingers to the rot,
hands corrupt and greasy
from the money like methane
bubbling up from the boardrooms.
Vote out the zombie incumbents!
Be the term limits you seek.
For the Living Poetry Prompt: Outrage.
Just one week until the election is done and the shenanigans begin. If enough of us vote, they might not be able to steal it this time. I’ve done my duty. Have you?
Summer Picnic
Fresh cut grass under our blanket
your warm skin ‘neath my fingertips
a tree is blooming above us
and its petals envy your lips
The low branches waltz in the breeze
to the music guiding your hips
flowers open to catch the sun
and their petals envy your lips
That summer picnic long ago
like that bottle of wine we sipped
still I remember that blossom
how its petals envied your lips
Photographer and model, Renee Staticage
