through the desert sea

I chiseled out an ancient face
and hanged it in my head
though it was not quite alive as I
was waiting to be dead

we trudged together through a desert
smoked a fat cigar
nibbled on dirty tortoise shells
burned our feet on tar

it went like this for twenty years
or thirty, or probably more
long enough that desert sand
began dripping from my pores

and now my skin has turned to bone
and my pretty name is aging
my ancient face is chiseled out
my brain is disengaging

and though I’m not quite as alive
as I would like to be
I am grateful for my blistering walk
through the desert sea

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.