Surgical Intervention
inspiration
is leaking
from my skull
like cerebral
spinal fluid
iridescent drops
that I cannot
replace
as they dry
in itchy patches
against the
matted hair
of my neck
touch me
just touch me
help me hold it in
I want
to write
honest again
The Plastic Fabergé
blood flows
like cane syrup
and we are
of the same
vein again:
the man
with the
Roman nose
and I
on my dresser:
a green Easter egg
full of Mary Jane
a gift
from him
my plastic
Fabergé
time suspends
with the lapping
of his black hair
against my
open chest
and it races
with our cheap
communion
the sweet nocturne
of his motorcycle
in the dark
wakes me
to my folly
Three Fates at Night
I was stopped
at that arrhythmic
traffic light
off Phillips highway
one midnight
three ragged panhandlers
shuffled out
from the darkness
into the road
their bodies all
shapes of death
hooked noses
protruding in unison
three women
each holding
in her skull:
the absent eyes
of fish on ice
mouths glued
in the microscopic
smirks of the toothless
and clothing
in the palest
shades of careworn
one clutched a bundle
of palm fronds
like an infant
to her chest
and came
to the window
of my Camaro
she saw the way
I shuddered
bobbled her head
in despair
and pressed
a small, green
palm cross
against the glass
then they all
were gone
harshly extinguished
like the voices
of whispering children