That man over
there has a twenty-four
hour itch and gets
any breeding, breathing
alcoholic to scratch it.
How do I know?
I'm all in yours.
See that woman
who walks with an arch in her back.
She can't keep her refrigerator
door closed long
enough for it to heal.
And, she is not overweight.
Miss Thang works
her bread box.
Shameful. Bessie in that
midriff, low-budget
slip dress whose threads
can't even block
the fan blades' spiraling
peaks. She only embarrasses
herself with the fallen angel
routine. Her halo was tarnished
long before this banquet.
Mr. Cooper can
see right through
the quiet bitch whose contract
expires in forty days.
Redemption rests in the letting
go of Echo.
You'll be amazed what
people will say
when the clock unhooks its gown.
The truth for some is like a fountain
with everyone leaning
over for a sip or so
before gasping for air.
You'll be amazed what
people will say
when the clock whistle its chime.
The truth for others is a garnishing
and lies are the meat and potatoes
of any good dish.
You will be amazed that
I am better than a fly
on a wall for I speak.
I get around.
The lights recede as the hairy
thunder wiggles the windows
and floor. A two-dollar
scream rages on as I listen.
I plop my head for fear
between two, soft
jelly packets. To my chagrin
its not the floor. What
will the neighbors think
as I hide in the womb of a woman?
Did you hear? I didn't
tell. Where you there?
I couldn't see. Can
you feel that? It's not me.
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