BOY HUNTING RATS
When big rats rummaged through the trash
I was the hunter on the street
in the pitch black.
I stalked the night.
Sounds of them gnawing,
thick nest of black rats high in the ceiling
of the abandoned house.
Then I was cast out
from the kingdom of rats,
into the mirror and the naked truth,
my bright
fruit hanging from the trees
in the light.
They are only
the temptation, the ancient sin
that means something
to drunk uncles, somebody's
priest.
I don't know how we survive it.
On this cold autumn evening
as an adult, I am looking
at the thick black lashes
of my children's eyes.
They are all the fullness there is
in the night. The rats scratch at the joists
deep inside our walls.
They always do.
It feels good to cuddle for hours
against the chill.
VIRTUAL FEVER
Real? What does that mean?
You play it safe
With nets, nets as a psychic
Balance of the internet
That functions off the map. Unremitting
And wheeling out
The turrets turning, the turn, the turn.
We take turns tired.
The phenomenon rolls
On its leisurely stroll.
Tight, your long lips blow out
At me like an elephant's trunk, I don't know
Whether to kiss them or save them as my wallpaper.
Our blistered fingers burnt
Out from our osmosis. They will not hurt,
But play to our strengths
Giving us just enough,
Just right
Inside the chink in the chain,
Our moonlit lagoon
Shooting its soothing circle in our veins,
Silvery syringe...
Boiling mercury fills it
And raises it to the future.
