Shoes, Breakfast

Sometimes I feel like my shoes are talking to me

There they sit with two open mouths

Surprised and yelling

Or maybe waiting for me to fill them
For me to give them purpose
They are waiting in the dentists chair
Wsiting to work,
Some glum  florescently lit office

Instead I hope they are yawning
Just waking up and looking for
Foot-shaped breakfast
Because this morning, that
Is what they are getting

A Coffin

A coffin

What kind of words would
Wilt the lilies
With the wafting of their breath

Glory! Oh morning glories!

Twirl your taught tendrils
And wring out the light
From my stocky chest

What weeds come with
Perfect purple and inviting pedals,
Such silent smotherers  

Only to close up shop
When the midday sun
Beats its brightest;

Hold fast my twirling nymph,
Hold fast Wife
For as you grow, I diminish

You drainer of my life.

Watercolour

My mother, who has been divorced
three times, takes yearly trips
alone
to Europe

And there, her tanned and
wrinkled '60s beach body
made it to its 60s and
she doesn't care

she will still lay
out, in the sun,
brown and orange,
soaking in the sunbathing waves

Now. I'm supposed to be watching
my daughter
who has been sprayed
by the garden hose

she hands me a white-faced
dolly
and runs over to strum
my guitar, unintelliably.

now she is looking through the slats in the door
and wants to hold the glass trincuts
that are just out of reach
she says "me" "Hold" "no"

Hold Dada
Hold!

Just always writing

You have to be writing all
the time, and it has to be good

every day, has to be something else,
something really really good

or else, why; why do you
matter

why read, if it's not
all the time

and it's not the best
that has ever been written

Don Draper says that it's
the best or nothing

For years I have been choosing
nothing

Now, I don't want to be the best
just something

and here it is
here is something.