Moist
Evokes disgust in some;
giggles in another.
The consequence of a spillt drink;
the prize of the cake.
The studs in the walls fear her;
the grass in the field waits
earnestly for the proof of
her quality.
A smooth surface she complicates for the feet;
the towel of her disposition
holds the bowl in place.
Weaponized against the barber;
life-giving for the Berber in
Gibraltar.
Her mouth-feel when spoken is
slippery and sensual;
perfect for reviving an aged conversation.
The furrowed brow of the captured spy
resents her tell;
her touch on the skin is proof of our living.
Moist, hated by the soldier in the Ardennes trench;
loved by him stationed in the Arabian days.
She sat in the garden and wept.
The puppet-master sat upon the liar-seat
with a melody playing over the bugel,
a wake-up call to the clay vessel maiden,
to animate, define, conform, absolve.
The puppet-master played ivory over ebony keys,
ebony over ivory tones,
a divided mind with himself to receive
any harvests from the blonde-haired maiden.
Yet he sat upon the chair, with his eyes bleeding
tongueless fury and mouthless ire,
unable to reconcile with
the maiden's words.
He was the king,
and she the princess.
But he was the greybeard, bald-headed,
and she the fresh lilly in the courtyard.
He knew what she was to be,
and she knew too.
The ramparts burned with thermal radiance,
at the rejection of her telos.
She was an animation of leather teeth,
defined by a woolen coat,
conformed to the pasture,
absolved by her able-bodied leisure.
His kingdom was walls,
and her kingdom, fields.
#garden #kingdom
Coffee Break
Some find the day’s start irksome,
but some the middle.
But I have found a moment worse;
my reason simple.
When 2 p.m. finds the clock,
the filters appear.
Not the kind that saves from breath
but keeps the drink clear.
In fact, the fumes are wretched,
like 1916.
Mustard seeds? Test the faith of
man attacked by beans.
The ire of my heart when I
inhale and I appose
myself by the odorous
stink filling my nose.
Or the spilling that occurs
when flimsy cups tip
onto my desktop papers.
Oh, why call it drip?
Why not call it stain or splash,
more accurate names?
Or maybe create better
cups so it’s contained?
And without it they’re cranky,
unproductive too.
Drowsy and defeated minds
with three hours ’til noon.
I despise this scheduled time,
my main complaint thus:
this beverage has a way of
making things erupt.
The bathroom line out the door
at half past the hour.
The air smells like cinnamon,
sweet pea, and some flowers.
Though I don’t participate
in those coffee breaks,
My body has its needs, bowels
don’t disciminate.
But when the line is over,
I entered and wept,
I needed toilet paper,
but there isn’t any left.
#coffeebreak #toiletpaper