Who Are You

Who are you in your
baggy black jeans, watching
piss ants form long tedious lines
from ground to
leaves?

Who are you with your
tight pin stripes, walking the
easy walk through spit fire
rain mixed
streets?

Who are you, resting raw on old
sheets?

Who are you with your bold thumbs,
and your forward reflex,
and your creamy repose?

Who are you to those who know your
thoughtful silence, or your blunt anger,
or your cold shoulder?
Who are you to the ant, the ground, and the leaves?
And, then, who are you to me?

Allegiance To The Line Juicer

He is wired for
sour fruit dessert, weaving black and blue
cables  through his heart.

A stripper and his peach syndrome
parted, in him, desire from fear.
He lost.

Yet,
he can swallow rose petals better
than any absorbent
and
he steps more lucent than any
cloud walker…

I have pledged allegiance to his hands,
his hair,
his stubble shadow.
I demand his tongue
his touch,
his exchange;

where his voice spreads thick,
taste enhances,
where his deluxe firewater is served,
servants dance,
where his skin sheds to brace life,
I kneel.

If God cannot dampen my dry, callous skin,
maybe this sad Electrician can.

 

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