Sunday, November 13, 2005

Some things you shouldn't get too good at

like smiling, crying &

that night we layed the mole game for china and clover
rupert wondolowski

The clock hands greased
baby mole other room sleeping
She said "for a minute
or two I felt like a
little girl bouncing on a
dirty old man's knees"
(all my chest hair?)
she wonddered what else
we could be, I said
electric eels

In the morning I woke
from a Frank Sinatra dream -
he scraped a paring knife
across his spotted liver
gone flesh, bloated orange moon
and tried to jab me
as an equally sick
Bobby Kennedy looked on
rotting face map
She was getting her cigarettes
from beside the bed and I saw
three of her, she said
"We had such a good morning.
Al cocoked us breakfast
and we watched Bullwinkle."
She pressed against me
and we sank back into the ocean bed
my head a bobbing brown apple core

anne sexton: in memoriam
rupert wondolowski

an afternoon coccktail
has changed things
considerably, mashed
potatos still clinging
to waxed lips
to be a daddy
or a singer
in a jazz band
smooth as bourbon
and coke would
be a fine thing


Blogger a said...

mmm smooth as your lips and your tongue and the words you whisper in my ear at the end of a hot night in a cool bar with misty cigs and raspy whiskey stains on our breath...

your hands rough and determined screaming as they grasp my neck and take their prominent place on my back moving me away from the others to a small secret corner where only we exist ....

2:42 PM  

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