One of these days
and days
and days
and days
the Universe will send
a sympathetic seventh chance
who wouldn't leave anyone
on read
with eyes soft and brown
evasive like a feral cat's;
nipples perfectly asymmetrical.
Until then
my brothers in Christ
the couch ain't the only thing
that's pulling out--
driven to thirst
by ancestral expectations
and mediocre excuses
for only being taken
in small doses
like a Band-Aid
we all wear
but still insist
to hide.
Not to jinx it
by being brazen
with Lady Luck
but we haven't had
a major airline catastrophe
in what feels like longer
than I remember
growing up;
not one of those rich pricks
in a privately owned Cessna
that was probably grandiose suicide
or insurance fraud to save their heirs
sans golden parachute
but a media feeding frenzy
with images of floating fuselage
and mention of children
who could've grown
to cure cancer
had they been given
that imaginary chance--
news anchors spewing sea coordinates
and Boeing models with lots of 7s
that degenerate gamblers
like the ones I've grown to love
would later play
in the lottery.
I'm not saying
we're overdue
but they must've fixed
the plane problems
because we haven't fixed
the people.
Being a Pisces
ain't all
it's cracked up to be:
a glider
adrift
with no landing strip
in sight.
Currently reading:
"Insomnia" by Stephen King.
I shaved my head
after bald spots developed
stress induced again
and my father asked
if I wear a wool hat to work
when he saw me
but I don't
since I like the brisk feeling
of air on bare skin
though I wore a black
watchman's cap
the next time
that I visited him
for his sake
not mine.
Walking by portraits
of men
in my home
and mannequins
on the job
I can attest
to the fact
that we all wear
smiles differently.
Some of them hurt
like a trap expertly set
italicized
parts per million
but I see them
and cherish them all:
Dead languages
other than Latin.
Currently reading:
"The Bear Speaks" by Eric Tomlins.
A charity organization
for cancer, but not for bald kids
line mine
finally sends
her complimentary address labels
though she's no longer
here to receive
those invalid stickers
from invalids.
I save them
just in case
again.
"It's not my business,"
an old friend concedes.
"Hell, I never met her."
Maybe I didn't
either.
