Plucked Guitar #38

I like how the sound of the guitar
slides down your throat
twiddling & plucking your chest strings.
And a tear wells up
because it's as if it were a sock in the gut
but you enjoy it
it makes you feel sad
like a semicolon does
stopping forever the top of a letter
while reaching back towards it all at once.
The twang you hear should be low
and far reaching.

#37, I apologize for the suckitude....

Sleep, Happiness, Theory


What is happiness?
Happiness is a roll of film

What's a roll of film?
Something to take pictures with

Your dreams, which always
end up blurry, in motion

Fear which is frozen
and green with sickness

Sleep, which is nothing but
rest, heart stealing

like a photo is said to do.

#36, and it needs lots of help

The Art of Barbecue Isn't Hard to Master,

it all depends on how you
treat your steak, sausage, ribs,
whatever cut you may have.
Do you grill peppers on the side,
an onion, a tomato?
How do you like it:
bloody as the red pepper,
or black, burnt
like some eyes, like some fingers
like cages, knives,
two holes on the moon's surface
holes between lips
the rip in the carpet
that tears a bit more
since a foot will always get caught in it
and trip
blackening the surface with skid
and soot and charcoal.

#35, Heat

Sweat should be colorful.
Then you can be bathed
in a mood ring
instead of bland salt water:

morose reds, greens like those
that drip off conifers
in the morning like brewing coffee,
blues like infants' eyes and brown
like the roots of a family.

Walk, swagger in heat.
Colors dissolve in the shower,
like troubles,
after a brutal humid day.

With an Elated Heart I Stare at a List of Argentine Poets and Authors (#34)

Perhaps after I buy a slew of books from every author, my capitalist urges to feed the Machine will subside.

...they smell like Florida oranges.

Passing by Old Train Junkywards, I Demand More Happiness in the World (#33)

If you insist on being an old train, rust cresting your spine & sitting next to warehouses all the time,
at least hire a graffiti artist to color your losses in pinks, oranges, and lime
over white.

Ok, kids, back on track here -- La Bomba del Tiempo (#32)

Each finger is a wheel of time.
Banging against the skins,
an audience transfixed
and if not, then jumping, flailing.
Air is hot. It makes us move
slowly, though our desire
for rhythm rockets.

Each finger is a wheel of time.
I lose some dead skin on my fingers each day.
Lately, I wake up with more
wanting to fall off.
It's as if I'm molting.

A good restaurant or cafe
allows you to take your time.
Never to wear a watch,
wait for the wind to blow outside
and slowly, deliberately
put down your fork.
Each finger is a wheel of time.