my friend, the florist

her eyes are steel blue,
not robin's egg, baby, or
Carolina blue

but frosty and crisp,
like a gin martini
just made and resting.

she carries with her
a thick musk of verbena,
moss, and lavender,

so that long after
our talks of men, dogs, food, wine,
sex, sins & sinners

her scent clings to me,
a delayed good-bye embrace,
so tender and sweet.

sulking.

when you're a teacher
the month of august feels like
sunday -- quick, dreadful.

streptococcus

a barnacle grows
on my right tonsil.
it tastes of tin cans,

9 volt batteries,
or like clenching a hanger
between your teeth so

you can easily
button the buttons on a
freshly pressed men's shirt.

a great day to be at sea

did you know that i
have always wanted to be
a tugboat captain ?

ahoy, dream ! i see
you in the mist ! we would guide
all the big boats through

narrow passages,
under bridges and whatnot.
i'd learn all the maps,

bearings, and knots (wait --
are there knots on a tugboat ?)
regardless, it'd be

a snap for me since
i'm a math whiz, and pretty
good with my hands, too.

it would be cold as
a witch's tit, rainy, and
way before sunrise,

but i wouldn't care, cause
i'm a tough nut and a damn
good tugboat captain.

a bird in the hand

elbow deep in my
cunt, the doc asks 'why don't you
wanna get married ?'

possibly the last
words i wanted to hear save
for 'scoot down. further.'

it's the little things.

mopped the floor and had
a listen to richard marx.
feeling productive.

a dirty deed.

made a young girl cry
last night here at my very
own kitchen table.

the make up stained tears
creeping down her cheeks seem so
far away now, as

morning sunshine seeps
through my bedroom window and
my head gently throbs.