Inktober #10: Flowing (October 10th)

Flowing

Faucet on full
blast, executing particles
left over from party
plans.   Detachment
when wet, jet stream
pummels leftover
melted cheese platters
accumulated with mold
because binge drinking,
never good idea.  Alcohol
down gullet slip sliding
toward stomach, splish
splash with acidic juices
layering layers of stomach.
Echo of drip drops heard
by neighboring capillaries,
veins, arteries that house
life force molecules a certain
tinge of rusty redness, plasma
cellular migrations to and fro
about heart to head.   Gray matter
of brain slinking synapses
bungee cording to kiss
another trapeze artist as an
injunction for movement,
creativity, or lizard brains boasts
of posturing through rage,
love, or momentary lapses
as gurgles intercede as go-between
of alcoholic consternation.
Inebriation slimy, bunched
up, hogging blood stream
to interfere with circus factory
performing in brain so that
thoughts to shield face
from grime launched off in splashes
of faucet release don't
smack cheeks, eyes, ears,
hair and make a mess, though
regurgitation might erupt
from belches as though river
water rushing with a current
matching mighty Mississippi.

Inktober #9: Precious (October 9th)

Precious

Don't kiss goodbye memories gone by, because they will sneak back on you with a knuckle sandwhich, fit to find your teeth,

just as you've grown comfortable to the guise of lies that shimmy on up flagpoles, waving toward setting sun that smiles on everyone,

that is when rumination begins, as a sparkle of sunlight spreads openly on spectacles inching off your face gritting into beams,

it will floor you, land you on your back like a capsized ship on cement seas, seasonsed with pebbles varying in size,

sharpened in degrees, fables slide down deciding to deviate from their message because they belong to you, digging into your chest cavity,

bleeding will subside, once you decide to abandoned a way that was derelict, youth will spit as they pass rolling on skateboards,

but feasting would not be done, for goodbye was a memory you wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't survive if life is to thrive,

pray it not find you, hound you, haunt you until blood erupts in geyser pools to tickle dust immediately near in air up there,

collapsing on sentimentality, that is your face, and smothering you, drowning forgetfulness so that always knows how it choked,

for memories escape entrenchment yet seldom are bodies unbruised, ruined for lack of safety, lack of confrontation, so that haunting occurs,

more of a sneak attack, good or ill, depending on what you done, memories as precious gems that you wear in your crown, or choke on.

Inktober #8: Star (October 8th)

Star

twinkle twinkle little star
parental supervision, shuttled by car
smoking men in dinner jackets
pushed you in limelight whined
and dined you proceeded to feed
on those bones and spit you out
all alone, surrounded by lights
but all alone amongst garish wolves
who howl in sunlight as your face
is shown in standard letterbox
in a million homes.

Inktober #7: Exhausted (October 7th)

Exhausted

Imagine how hard it was for the tree to grow
And think of how ugly we find its barren branches in cold
After a lifetime of patient tugging and stretching
      out towards the sun,
            we insult the tree just because it needed a moment to rest.
Its leaves may have been dead and fallen gracefully
To our earth, but think of how much it took for it to sprout
Break out of tiny seed and embed itself into the ground
        digging and clawing
              finding its way through a hardened earth
                      and we insult it for wanting to rest.
Imagine that tree trying its damnedest to be free
Lifting its hands up in praise and constantly being
A home for rodents and birds who drilled holes inside,
         and how it was happy to oblige.   How it
                carried the weight of those leaves on those branches
                      and shook them off to rest
                           And we had the gaul to insult it
When it was the most beautiful God of all.

Inktober #6: Drooling (October 6th)

Drooling

I am not a Pavlov dog
a sick em, bite em
tear it up kind of man
I am not a man prone
to violence or given
to shout out my demands
I am not a beast
set about to devour
my bounty stolen
from its own hands
I am not a monster set
upon by god to do
what i please
I am not a predator
taking what i like
when i like and proud
i always get away
I am not an excuser
claiming its my way
because of a sack
tucked between my legs
I am not drooling
over those who just
walk to find their way
home,
I am not a Pavlov dog
conditioned to make
excuses for the boys
who are all those things
I am not.

Inktober #5: Chicken (October 5th)

Chicken

A lone coyote wandered inside the hen house,
spying all the spry chicken legs
and perusing and deciding to sniff them out one by one
he searched high and low for just the right scent
and gave a lick upon the face of whatever one he liked
and snapped its neck inside his jaws
and left the other chickens mortified.

As he wandered across hills and across fields
he decided he didn't like that particular chicken no more
so he dropped it in the dirt and wandered back onto
hen house.   With his sniffer on turbo and his eyes keen
to kill, he spied another one just minding its business
and snapped its neck too.

About half way back to home, the coyote dropped his kill,
passed his first on way back to hen house and didn't
give it a second thought.  Inside the hen house the chickens cawed
and clucked and hoped for help but none came, and the farmer
snored away inside his house.  Another snapped neck, another
dead hen and dropped in the grass all the same.

The lone coyote went back again, and found another chicken
and they cried out for help.   The rooster stood to the side,
the farm hand came out to see what was the matter, and though
he spotted the dogged cousin wandering into the hen house
every time, and though he had a shotgun loaded and ready
to deliver that dogged soul to Jesus, the farm hand stood by

he supposed it was just natural that the predator get the prey,
never mind prevention, he thought, mine as well let every dog
have his day.

Inktober #4: Spell (October 4th)

Spell

hidden pools of vomit green asked god for a reason
that sun abandoned reach of arm at canopy
god said, look, its not my place to force sun's response
but should grimy things such as yourself find
need of kiss from father time just ask trees to move
so fowl coasting in water was begged of my grime
to pardon branches way up high to be bothered
yet when birds flapped upwards a breeze mighty blew
them back to muck mutilated amongst foliage
vomit green pool hidden in forest begged god again
to which god replied, once asked me to intervene
with sun, now ask me to punish wind who only protects
canopy from birds, a small pool need not beg favors
from those above it, so treat your position as lesser
for bottom laying to feed maggots is where you should
remain.  vomit green pool took great offense to man
in sky, lashing out with a fist to strangle wind into
a dance and wind begged of pool to stop but vomit
green would not adhere cycloned a twirl to tippy top
tearing away the winds, a delicate kiss on the cheek
of vomit green sent it back relaxed finally to bottom
of the pool and water fowl cursed out wind as they
bathed in pool of vomit green.   with hiss of agitation
wind traveled to god listing senseless grievances done
upon him by wet hidden pools but god folded arms,
laughed and said, have you know pride in what you've done,
do you not need it spelled out for you, if you cannot
figure it out yourself, said he, then tempest you and pool
will be.