Cottage Industry

 

The tired place where a man buys licorice
From a basement musty and foul
And where lizards shoot out from the backyard
Motoring along to the hum of 80s music

We savored the memories and I longed for

A special place in the waves and water
Where I could see the minnows
I could hear the music of parents
Who secured a trusting bond with their children
And I could even catch a sense that there is no danger
The terrible things happening are just the result of dust
That is obscuring our cloudy faces and sandswept eyes
Back in the cottage days, when I was in trouble
I would dig a hole, fill it with seashells
Then dig it again, pretending that they are new finds
When in fact, they were new finds.

Master of Con-Fusion

 eclectic mix of colors and spices
confounded with the smell of campfires
the spring is going to awaken us
I find myself in restaurants becoming 
quite the consumer
tasting all the marvels that my belly and mind
can possibly fulfill, an Epicurian without
principle to stop, to rewind and say
all this is terrible delusion.

at the close of the day
the wind settles into a quiet whisper
and walking down the winding street
i feel the knowing that like a ping-pong
my steps fade into studied rhythms
up and down left and right
leaving no trace of solid, liquid or gas
down life's busy toilets, 
the sewers of the modern city.

today I mixed all the flavours

of every country down every passage

down every lane

and down down what did I pay for it?

what did I give to obtain this precious knowledge?

no tip could possibly cover the costs.

Barely Made

a chocolate cookie spilled on the floor
crumbling in dissolving hands, barely made

"anemic", the teacher, shaking hands

bending head
would say

soft hands that never worked hard,
never saw the light of an oven, 
the heat of an electric saw. 

A mind absorbed
in the twist of plotted books.

heaven is the library of the soul
why do I not belong here?

heaven's in the pages where people 

remain immortal
where I can be any character, adopt any pose

the tension between use and disuse
a failed apprentice

ditched projects, wired guts
an angry man walking away 

without a single heir.