Batman would not have
taken the bus today &
stepped in someone else’s gum
my own shoes
do not fit anyone else
& my magic potion
still just tastes like coffee.
– Panacea –
there is not one bulbous word
as we slim and trim
to catch the essence
& though it makes us
writ(h)e and bleed,
we sculpt —
time and again, craving
the perfect fit.
crusty, is it not?
should have bought better candy —
are you still scrubbing?
– Egg –
tucked away in the smallest of closets
the child in her bellowed; holding fast to the promise of
an aging hyena’s sly smile, fully prepared
to deny those few strands of self
still clinging to pumping calves
on her steady decline
she left her name at the doorstep
along with her unbound fate, dropped
what little truth she had
into the blossoming weave of her mesmerizing colors
& displayed her heart for rent.
– The Sunday Whirl –
on his sandpaper skin
you could see the scars of
all those missed trips to Neverland —
all those moments when
he wanted to be Peter Pan
but could not bring himself to fly
& with his earthbound grip
he built his foundation, solidly
on the slopes of a childhood dream
while his twinkling eyes
still sought Peter Pan
in the ever-changing skies.
you swallowed your sinewy thoughts
with the contents of a chipped coffee mug
at that old place just around the corner
& drifted to the bottom for
accompanied by the hollowed out
‘Do’s & Don’ts’ of social convention.
she brushed her hair back, smUgly,
all you longed to see
were the remnants of vividness
her eyes once possessed,
but spires of woe
clouded her vision.
in your mind I breathe
the callous enigma that
gave birth to us both
– Proxy –