waterlogged words
Like the honeybee
furious in its task
I would rip the abdomen
devour the essence of life, my own
run through
that which stands in my way
Of timeless flight
and flutterings
mid-air lovemaking
of heartbeats measured in wingspan
and anguished thrustings
I now
the honeycomb
sweetened in your haste
bathe in the efforts of your force
and fall from the sky
Bee again
Yellow then black, yellow then black
as sweet as nectar
as ripe as spring
Two roads diverge in a yellow wood,
One looks well trod and worn
The other, scorned but good
But sadly I note, they both uphill go
So I say hell no, I’m going home.
Philosophy is for fools.
A daffodil lashed
fire, anchored words.
The evil barons are singing
and she spins and spins.
Her beauty is poisonous.
She is growing old in the sun, weathered by black rain.
She was a death charmer with a plastic face.
Her insides were empty and haunted.
She is the doppelgänger of a saint.
Her life is chaos.
She heals people at her job.
She harms people in spare time.
She is a monster. The sad part is she knows it.
Her life is a fraud.
She stains your thoughts.
She was the only one that could eat glass and not flinch.
She had the moon in her eyes.
I knew she was my ticket to hell.
Her aura is dirt.
You don’t want her anymore.
That crazy broad will be the death of us all.
You want to kick her out.
She always does something nice to make you feel bad.
She is a gloomy Sunday.
She makes you want to drink.
You hide your wallet from her.
She is the life of the bar.
Sure my hands grip the wheel,
anything to convince myself
I’m steering this contraption.
You sit beside me, neat as your
fingers around a cigarette,
as the coils of smoke
that rise to the ceiling,
pass through the metal.
The dashboard grins up at me
with a smorgasbord of lights,
of indicators,
nothing to tell me where I am,
just the speed of going nowhere,
how much gas i have left to get there.
Your last words zip by
like a sleeker, faster model,
shake me off course,
or shove from behind,
make me go faster
than my intentions,
then push hard against the front
like a brazen isometric
exercise in pain.
Mile after shattered mile,
another highway victim
counts his life into the statistics,
with caustic eyes,
short-circuited breath.
And here’s you staring at the road ahead,
as if you are the only one
with a right to a destination,
and me, stunned and fearful,
these nights when the deer in the headlights
is the one driving the car.