Mild spoonerisms in this desert rain love.

"She's still sleeping in her bed, though not as soundly
as his right foot feeds the engine gas-- his laugh
over hitting the straight stretch of Eisenhower mile
muffled by the radio and whistle of the wind
in the windows he's cracked
to stay awake in lieu of coffee.
He sniffs his hand on the early ride north, a reluctant
return to a place no longer quite his home--
the smell of pennies and blood
beat into the leather of his steering wheel
not yet corrupting the trace of her delicate scent..."

See, I was talking about copper there
without actually mentioning it...
It was vain, it was vague, it was trying
too hard as usual.
I can't do this. Neither can you.
We'll pound our fingers and eyes out trying.

There's a difference 'tween art
and artwork:

the latter you hang on the fridge;
the former hangs you, and wherever
it damn well pleases.

Normally I'd plead the Fifth
but sometimes I take a stab.

Behind me on that beckoning bed
there's a gun to clean
and laundry to fold
so there's no time tonight
to fall shamefully in the middle.

There he goes again
wearing his heart
on the home row.

"My bedroom window's open
and though I hear no commotion
outside in the street or neighboring yards
I'm inhaling the pungent scent of
a man's pipe. It reminds me of
my childhood neighbor Pete
who once pulled me from a pool
I mistakenly jumped in while wearing only one water-wing.
That carcinogenic smell comforts me to this day, this night
even in my longing for your skin on mine.

May I show you to your seats?
May I sew you to your sheets?
I have the sound of the bugs where I sleep.
You have the wail of the sirens..."

Yup, there he goes again.
Somebody stop him.
That rifle won't clean itself.


Currently reading:
"Straight Man" by Richard Russo.