Sarcastic Parrot

View from Hotel

 

My parrot sits,
rainbow plumage,
on the balcony rail
far above the bustle
turning a wry eye
to watch me eat my omelet.
LOOK! AWWKK! I’M A HUMAN!
His sharp beak scratches at me
Then . . .
I’M SO DRUNK! AWWKK!
His mocking beak spits at me
tottering drunkenly, slovenly
side to side
on the precipitous rail.
Another fluffy bite of chorizo
MY! BEST FRIEND! AWWKK!
His pointed beak darts up and down
SORRY MARK! AWWKK! SORRY MARK! AWWKK! SORRY MARK! AWWKK!
His broken record hawks at me.

The wind whips around the building’s corner.

A tasty sliver of sausage
riddled with fat
slides past my tongue and gets
sideways, my eyes wide
OH GOD! AWWKK! MARK PLEASE! AWWKK!
His insinuating beak accuses as he
falls backward from the rail.
The attenuating wail becomes lost
as I hack the fatty pork
back atop my omelet.
I stare with tears at the plate
and my sarcastic parrot
alights back
on the rail.

The Sixth Course

Dinner in Tallahassee

 

 

Fuck me lips
and a Styrofoam face
made for gasoline.

She stutters and spits
like an oilless engine,
groaning and grinding
cunt-like in the neon basement.

From the mouth of God
spews a lava-filled litany
of arcane curses
and forlorn yearning.

Her bruised, steampunk-blue neck
pinned to the soaked mattress
with an afterworld glow
that spreads it glistening tentacles
throughout the concrete room
like gossamer octopi.

The room is pregnant and
screaming pheromones
with piss dribbles of fear.

She is most alive
seconds before her death,
when the swirl of dirty bathwater
draws the last shaved hairs
to the sewer.
—–
She smiles at me from
across the restaurant linens and
asks if we can go back to her place.

First dates are so stressful.

Cold Pasta


How does dead skin taste
I repeated back
laughter muffled
like the smothered homeless
to officer shiny pants.
His partner, vomit-ridden
with us both
for illusory discrepancies
crimes against humanity
omnivorous and blatant
on the green porcelain plate.

Like cold rigatoni
I said
and it turned out to be
too simple a metaphor
too easily grasped
and the shiny pants smile
quizzical, indifferent, numb

transmogrified

because now . . .
now
now
they tasted that rigor mortis pasta
like I did.

And just like that
significant others will wonder
what’s wrong with their simple Italian dishes.

High Tide


We laughed and played and laughed
As the waves broke on the shore
And the Sun baked the sand
And the children screamed for more

Seagulls clustered here and there
Awaiting special treats
We played until our skin burned red
And sand crept in our seats

Then the growing ball of Orange
Slightly touched the ocean
Testing the water first,
It seemed to cease its motion

“Time to go,” I yelled and
shoulders slumped in sorrow
“No fussing or complaining
And we might come back tomorrow.”

Then the children smiled
A new light in their eyes
“We have something to show you.
It’s a really big surprise!”

They know I love surprises
As I follow them to the spot
Where they’ve dug a rather large hole
For such a tiny tot

C’mon dad they beg
We’ll do it really quick
So I climb into the hole
That they’ve hollowed with a stick

They pushed the sand around me
I played along with a giggle
Until the sand was packed so tight
That I couldn’t hardly wiggle.

One last tip of Orange
Cast a faint glow to their faces
And they smiled even wider
As they ran back to their places

They laughed and played and laughed
As the waves broke on the shore
And I screamed until I couldn’t
My throat raw, and sore

I looked up at the Moon
Brilliant in the sky
And couldn’t move my arms
Though I try and try and try

I cried until I laughed
Then I laughed until I cried
Then I smiled to myself
And giggled by and by

Hours came and went
And boredom took its toll
Monotony crept upon me
In my sandy little hole

I laughed and laughed and laughed
As the waves broke on the shore
Then I laughed and laughed and gurgled
And then I laughed no more.

So when it’s time to leave,
And they wanna stay and play
Don’t put off ’til tomorrow
What can be done today.

Pillow Envy


There is a pillow between us.

That’s all
just a fluffy puff of cotton and foam
lying nonchalantly, lengthways,
pointing carelessly at the headboard
and forming a T with the other pillows,
a circumspect intersection of downy
hiding its shameful face under the covers.

You are no further away
than before
and yet I can not seem to reach you.

It lies motionless and silent
as do we,
but I can hear it’s muffled laughing.

A feather-light wedge.
The softest of simple machines
prying our sleepy bodies apart
with no effort,
save its cottony presence.

You roll over and I can see
the soft outline of your face.
You embrace the barrier
dividing us and pull it close.

I take a moment to reflect
on the silliness of pillow envy,
then I grab the pillow and cast it
from the bed.

You are startled, but none the wiser
to the melee that has ensued.
I slide to the center of the bed
in victory and gloat myself to sleep
with your arm around me.

A Million of You

Cell Division


I’ve loved a million of you,
second by second,
through and through.

The one that I met
ordering fries,
a sheepish grin
and a timid line.

I’ve loved a million of you,
minute by minute,
through and through.

The one that I kissed
on top of the car,
the girl you were
the woman you are.

I’ve loved a million of you,
hour by hour,
through and through.

The one who carried
our children with care,
positive and negative
we make quite the pair.

I’ve loved a million of you,
day by day,
through and through.

The one who said yes
then yes, I do.

I’ve loved a million of you,
moment by moment,
through and through.

I’ve loved each and every person
that you’ve gradually become
and all the parts that added
to contribute to the sum.

I’ve loved a million of you,
person by person,
through and through.