Untitled II
The skin across my face
Is hot and dry and drawn
The hairs of my beard
Itch in singularity
And I just can't
Stop
Scratching
These are bad moon days
When my skin doesn't fit
And my fur won't fluff
And I flex the muscles
Which hold my body tight In hopes it will all split
And fall away
And shed
And slough
And die
And be left
To an abandoned corner
Of the old shed
The one with the moss
On the old gray doors
Perhaps one day
Tonight or tomorrow
Or one day next week
My eyes will focus better
And my bones
Will not shiver
Without cause
Untitled III
Strip somber sleeves and show scars of
Scared and sacred sanctuary where
Old ghosts drift back and fro and down
Through muslin hallways hanging onto
Bits of broken wax fruit that cling to
Black velvet paintings like a Rembrandt
Against the walls of the glassy sunshine.
Pull the pile of shag through knotted up toes
Green as golden brown Bermuda grass
That never quite grew as well as on the
Golf course just yards away from the house
That we all lived in for just a couple of
Sad and worrying years before fortune
Found us and told us we were special.
If I could do it all over again at least once more
Maybe no one would write my name down
In their little black books for black-balled
Writers who just wanted someone to praise
Stories and poems that dripped from
Fingertips onto cathode ray computer screens
In the wee hours when they were truly alone.
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