Blackbird Baking Company

painting of blackbird glaring
at bright green wall
red-tip wing, open-mouthed
squawking
at the techno playing here

the little bakery
named Blackbird
has a happy hour before closing
I buy a tiny cheese and potato pie
for half price, not realizing
how rich it will be

an orange print poster
#104 of a set of 150
from a 2008 indie-rock concert
crows flocking
onto white shadow branches
eerie and comforting

the young women
behind the counter
talk about dates they've had
dates they'd like to have
and jobs other than the one
they have

I am stuffed and think
I have a stomach-ache
I start thinking
about where I'd like to go
for dinner

Made in His image

If you close your eyes
Who are you then
If you press your finger
Against the point of a pin
Are you not
The tiny, invasive pain
And if she kisses
Your neck
Your ear
Are you not
The certainty
She will
Leave you
Again
Whatever we see
Whatever we think
In the end
In the now
We are completely
It

tall table

can't keep concentrate
focus notice nothing
of her hand down her
hair here
with no desire
for awareness
of anything unusual
except for the insubstantiality
of coffee
and the tall table
legs dangling
from my tall stool

practical matters

practical matters
like obtaining a bagel
on a Tuesday morning
Asiago, toasted
with sundried tomato schmear
the artist know as "Lorde"
on the overhead
a diet Coke
a Newbery book
a day ahead
that starts with sustenance
with feeding Self
brother body, fed as well

polarity

polarity
implies one --
a see-saw
with the crazed and compassionate
on one side
the pent-up and polished
with clammy hands
on the other

it really is one
light and shadow
two sides
of one
paradox

and it's fun
this game they play
the worlds in the balance

at least one side
thinks it's fun

and at least
the other,
slick in their
suits of implications
and innuendo
are getting some
exercise
are getting their stale garments
in the fresh air

gargoyles

gone are those guides
through darker climes
we reach for crinkly
bags instead
potato chips, fast
food burgers
for cheap beer
and bottles of salsa
with notes written
hastily, "set me free
let me out from this
freaking reality show"

if only we'd eaten
the partially-rotted fruit
the meat, underdone
but tender
the clouds, grey
and looming
they were the only
sustenance in sight

the only monsters to be honest
to tell us
we have taken this all
a bit too far

ye old shell game

the pleasure
of pleasure
expectation
met
the two work together
and then you forget

ships pass
in darkness
working at skew
you know this discomfort
instead of knowing
you