i always loved that ? Dum Dum sucker
the best
not root beer
again
oh please not grape cherry orange lemon
Surprise!
like when Lu ordered the albondigas soup she was 80 years old
she was sitting in her wheelchair i’ll never forget
the look
on her face
‘WHAT THE HECK’S THAT’ Jake yells
one big meatball
a plate of motionless water
empty
fragrant
smiling, almost
Lu wasn’t.
pastels
all of these are broken but I like the box
go ahead
laugh when mom mailed
it they got broken
your ideas are funny
the entire week before, I was hanging around
looking for the life of me for a chaise lounge allover the want-ads
they were too expensive
then you
————————->dragged yours out under a tree
there was no sense dragging it out
somewhere in Mississippi, you were probably just de
hydrated
you
had your friend help you
drag that thing outside
sat down on sunday
under a tree
and when he left
you
thought nobody would see
We sit in the evening
having succumbed to a giant shade
of succumbing.
Our hands no longer touching
the minutes stretching in awesome horoscopes
of fibres we do not read which once required salutation.
Now hands
having touched another, succumb to silence
refuse
the heavy door
succumb to the poverty
of nuance in meaningless gesture as typing
and the daily Now
cannot remember
the backyard grinding of a radio
where fickle fingers in unbuttons
of shadow give meaning to each other and
caress
the pressing
shirtsleeve, dusk
once in another form
and slipping of fingers through metal
or distant rubs in the motioning jungle
tied insatiably to
careening
coarse angles and sweat.
Our hands cannot remember.
Just yesterday walking home our hands refused an honest touch and hung
useless the wind
waiting the pedestrian passing light
To blink, ignoring one another.
Last Tuesday
disinterested in skin,
our hands fidgeted with thread as a single guide
to indifference. To not caress.
We are made incoherent to ourselves by this not touching.
Unelegant
Fingers remember unfeeling, forget
the feel of each
other’s closet carpet en motion
the feel of
Evening
where once they lurched singing for a door to open future worlds
whose dreams might hurtle us onto some other clime
of a heaven clattering warm cups.
Oh, sweet
senses
tapping subways window ledges and the grocer’s
shallow nailbeds
echoing
a dirt of him, who, unexpected,
gave us
his, which strummed the lemon’s
strings, tongued the palms and
scratched the mournful songs. Burned by
those hands, a tenderness which the moons of our eyes
have not forgotten.
Hands for which no worthy thing exists once grasp is gone
of the texture it chose best
his skin
a smooth alabaster dresser
of edges
lost.
These hands
shall forget
as children in water
forget the shore. But unlike children the shore will be a clinging thing for these hands
as a stationary object which could be held
were it not for the knowing
of a sea.