Fire Juice

My mouth broils as he Ogre’s around
our apartment. Things,
things,
little things,
severely minuscule things
are everywhere,
out of place,
unclean.

His small feet stomp inflammation
into our feeble floors.
His small hands run away from
his body
to find me,
to strangle me!

I watch from underneath
couch cushions, where crumbs of
yesterday lay sullen until
they are found out later
and
sucked away by his mean vacuum cleaner.

He calls,
he calls me out…

angry laughter speeds from his
black callousness to
my eardrums. I hear them explode.

He stomps with plague.
He stomps to me. Ripping me from
haven, his touch ignites my mouth
filled with fire juice

and
all I can do is spit!

Perfect, Perfect, June 9

June 9.

A day that every other day
wants to be.

A day that wears snowball robes
among
daffodil trimmed
avenues,

singing a knot-tie
ditty that
clanks
with balls hooked
to short,
short
chains.

A day frosted with
pockets full
of posy,

cakes layered
with ashes
and
ashes,

dances,
twirls,
smiles,

until Bride and
groom
both fall
down.

6 years pester at them.

Knock, Knock, Knocking
on their skin, crawls
under epidermal
rugs

where it reaches up,
plucks at arm hair
follicles
one
by
one

creating a trail of annoyance
on
loving arms.

The pester years
crawl throughout
their underlying
crust,
burrowing themselves
deep
within,
until old Bride and
old Groom
fall down

in despair.

June 9 approaches.

A day that no other day wants
to be.

A day that wears soiled
tablecloths among
champagne
crashes,

singing a thunder
roar
lullaby to
heart shackles
that
clank, in pieces,
together.

A day full of
frozen hands stuffed
in pockets caked

with
ashes and ashes
of the past,

aches,
pains,
tears,

until Bride
and Groom
both fall down

in surrender.