Observations 1

father, carrying infant
12-gauge plugs in
both ears.
the four-leaf clover tattoo
on his left elbow
matches his shirt.
green's a good color
on him.
he's too hot for his wife, though,
whose thighs are each,
individually, wider than my torso.

what's an inverted hourglass called?
one where the top and bottom
are the thinnest points
and the middle is the widest?
well anyways she was wearing
a shirt that said "you'll never get over me"
but maybe it should have said
"you'll never get around me"
because she took up the whole sidewalk.
maybe if i was shorter i could walk under
her hips. maybe i could shove her
but even if i could overcome her center
of gravity, i don't have the cash
to pay the property damages.

green apron
reindeer antlers
flapping his arms like wings.
i come here too much,
so i'm not really surprised, anymore.
maybe he's like a walmart greeter;
i've never seen him make a drink.

he wants to take me out
to dinner and get to know me,
but he's wearing paisley and he
lost his bangs in the war. he gave
me his card; i guess i'll tell him
i didn't mean to stare, it's just
that i'm paranoid-schizophrenic
and the giant insect legs sprouting
out of his back kinda freaked me out.
i hope he'll understand the mix-up, 'cause
this kind of thing happens to me all the time.
i just can't see myself with a kafka-esque monstrosity.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, November 22, 2009)

Mistaken Identity

I am not simply
the sum of my
many mistakes,
though I hope
that in this,
for once,
I am not mistaken.
The proportion
approaches too closely
one to one.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, November 22, 2009)

The Resting

The red clay will one day
swallow up my gunnysack
of meat and sticks. Who could cry
about this everyday thing?
Who finds it sad when old friends reunite?
When twos become ones? Besides-
there are no drunk uncles who want to
hit me or put themselves in me,
sweating and furious with themselves,
under the red clay or brown dirt or green grass
or any other place I'm apt to lay.

I want to say that I will end up
in the ground safe from uncles
and hellhounds and hate. But 'end up' is not
quite right- I'll stay in that bright red clay for a
night or two and then I'll turn to dust or soil
and, with the turning of the earth, will traipse away
into the void. We got these forms from the hearts
of dying stars, you know,
and I'm a good boy so someday
soon I'll give mine back. That's good
sharing; we learned it when we were kids.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, Jan 03, 2010)