poem in my pocket day

poem in my pocket day, or some gifts for you

and here is the part
where i confess that i'm a
complete, shameless fraud

in the attic

in the attic, or the suspended wire

talking over wine
he says that memory is
a delicate web;

infinitely thin
silken threads linking all our
dreams, shames, and knowledge.

as time slips through the
waist of the hour glass, the
web evolves, rebuilds.

once supported by
the magical structure of
our mind, riches and

shiney treasures rot,
becoming ancient relics,
attained only by

a single quaking
tendril, a clothes line clinging
among the ruins.

dream # 24

all my teeth fall out.
in their wake? warm sockets, rich
like buttery beef.

what i learned today on NPR (or, in afghanistan)

7 year old babe
says mommie my head hurts and
so she gives him smack.

for people that don't know what it feels like to be an asshole, or

Grace

the heavy woman
meanders in front of me,
wildly blemishing

the glorious
hypotenuse that i've mapped
out as my course home.

i kick some crumpled
paper in passive protest;
she pauses, then turns around

slowly, like a globe.
'i'm sorry' she sighs sadly
and then steps aside.

for sarah

my dear chace crawford:
run a comb through that rat's nest
A S A P, son.