Dialogue on Costumes

-Kid! Hey, kid!

~yeah?

-Hey, sorry. I was just thinking…which super. . .uh, which. . .If you could have any super power you wanted, which would you choose? Which super power would you choose?

~I would need some time to think about it.

-Well yeah, but this is just for fun. You don’t really need to think about it.

~I’m just not sure I want any super powers.

-I want to run realllly fast! Or maybe fly! Don’t you want to fly?!

~I’m sorry, I don’t think so.

-Well why not?

~I don’t think I could handle it.

-What, like power would go to your head? This is just for fun. You don’t have to worry about cliche, you!

~I’m not worried about a power rush.

-So you do want to fly!

~No, I don’t.

-Why not? You could do, like, anything.

~I would need a costume.

-You don’t need one. A get-up would be cool, though.

~I don’t know what I would wear.

-Super heroes don’t need costumes.

~Shut up.

-Super heroes can do whatever they please.

~Leave me alone.

-Costumes usually fall into the laps of people with powers.

~Yeah?

-Yeah! That’s the easy part-The costume!

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Kitchen Light

*The overhead kitchen light is on*
What luck!
What lurking, planning, thinking had you for me, kitchen?
The no-door threshold from den to you can be a leap from canyon head to canyon head and a man with a gun at the bottom.
When that happens, I want to bite one fist and throw the other and piss on the floor.
Though, this time, I will take my pack of essentials and hike the proposed trail.
It is here — the trail is still here– where it has been marked by qualified signposts and painted with comfortable arrows since before a caustic river hurt our flatness.
Flat ground!
Flat ground!
I march with sure feet to the kitchen. The field is true.

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To Walk on Snow

It feels wrong to step on snow
And to sound the death crunch
Like an arm bent backwards with nowhere to go but against itself.
To leave a guilty sole
on a styrofoam comfort
Like a million brothers and a deathbed father.
Here is water in its fourth and most tired phase.
Here is my sorry tread.

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The Exchange

No description available

Whirr
Have you heard
Whirr zip
Listen
Don’t listen
Do not listen
Whirr
You’re thinking
You are thinking?
Again?
Feet on pavement
Like mine.
Okay.
Now,
Whir
Damn it.
Whirr
Okay
Feet on pavement.
Shoes
Like mine.
Whirr
Feet
Shoes to legs
To body
No,
Whirr
Shoes to legs to waist to torso to neck to
Whir
Okay
Torso to
Whirr
Shoes
on up to neck
to

An exchange

A face knows a face
Before and after the nod.
No, no nod.
But, during,
It is so intimate:
Delectable, the oddest
Ring squared away.

No, no nod.
No raiséd brow.
Two tilted necks in passing.
But during the exchange,
And how odd the surest feeling sings.

That one,
Another,
Should, in passing,
And tilted neck, torso, waist, legs, shoes, and feet,
Also sing the surest feeling.

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I Ought Pen a Story on Love

I ought pen a story on love
Or something of lesser value.
Simply put:
I would make haste
In consultation of memory,
Siphoning all accounts of intimacy or of things less mentionable.
There, see? The work is half done!
Here, might I suggest you watch as my quill drips not a droplet en route to my parchment?
Even that has a nice ring.
Yes, drips not a droplet en route to my parchment.
DAH duh duh DAH DAH duh DAH DAH duh DAH DAH.
Do you hear how nice it is?
Most people can HEAR it just fine.
It’s the writing that gives everyone great grief.
It did not come easily, my knack for pace.
How, now!
Even you could have a metronome in your breath!
Did you hear that?
I will say it again.
Even you could have a metronome in your breath.
Even someone such as yourself could, eventually, understand what makes writing readable. That’s what it means.
But, if you listen, do you hear how much nicer the former sample sounds?

After I have nailed down my concept, all that’s left of this story is to put thought to paper. As I have shown, once you have the metronome, writing is simple.

On love or a subject less crucial.

Lo!
Is it necessary to claim anything as less important as love? As thou to live, therefore object it not!

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Boneless Lonely

Who’s gonna mend my clothes

Between the yes’s and the no’s?

Who wants to step in toe

With boneless lonelies, anyway?

 

What good’s a single to a few?

You should have learned to choose.

Who’s gonna sing the blues

To thoughtful lonelies, anyway?

 

We learned the tricks before the trade

And others find their pace.

Who’s gonna host parades

For thoughtful lonelies, anyway?

 

Manic, Maniac. Jump ship and hop islands.

Jump bones with no myelin- – only smiles on my defiled face

And sighs from my thinking train.

I stand to gain the most when I trick and treat,

Believe again that me is I and only we.

 

C-3p Oh my! disguised robo guys and gals

Ask a mouse why I’m lonely when you’re around.

Existentially tell me: if I’m a tree in a jungle of concrete,

Is it possible for me to make a sound?

 

Fortitude: forts in two parts. 

Fortune in mind and in mind,

Fuck the body and heart.

Fuck the art of malark, believing in solace.

When eyes wander I wonder if I can be bothered.

Bottleneck. Bottle this, bottle that.

Bolster holsters with the fire in your chest.

 

You sit; you fret; you think that you feel.

The warm, the depth, it’s all so real.

You steal those glances, but they’re not free.

They’re wrapped in stomachache to the ceiling.

Before you know it, you’re humbled.

Your internal organs have shifted.

You’re boneless.

You’re lonely.

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