Spilt Milk

Spilt Milk

I was always sure
hers would be the next call
delayed with some excuse
errands, car trouble,
dead phone.

I was always hers
until that last call,
the one that meant no more
calls were coming,
the one that ripped
the bowl of cereal
from my hands
and slammed it
to the laminated floor,
cornflakes floating
like life rafts
on the spreading sea of milk,
blueberry islands
and porcelain-piece
prominences projecting
from whiteness
as it made its way
under the refrigerator.

I sank down and sat
right in it
my slippered feet sliding
a bit as I splotched down.
The wave of milk rolled
blueberry islands in arcs
as the drips landed
clear salt water
homogenizing quickly
as it rippled into spilt milk.

New Smell

New Smell

Eight or ten times
I looked over my shoulder
at emptiness glinting
back at me,
a teasing cacophony
of almost-mirrors,
the bottles dancing
reflections
across their curvatures
an amplification of motion
when a tissue flutters
a hundred-fold
in the prismatic grasp
of glass.

Eight or ten times
I realized the scent
triggering my turn
did not herald the approach
of a new conquerer
or concubine,
but rather a small change
in identity,
for adjustment is slow
where scent is concerned;
the nose is last to let go.
Long after faces fade,
lilac will conjure tears
in the crow's-foot crevices
as the sun-filled yard
hedged with purple
yields to a curtained,
perfumed interior
on the day of the last
"I love you."

The silent sense sliding
up the nostril to the brain
slinking from fold to fleshy fold
and striking unexpected
to summon images,
sights forgotten
by all but the nose.
So when I glance
that eighth or tenth time
expecting someone
other than me
it's only because I'm unused
to this scent that isn't mine.

Empty Chocolate Box

Empty Chocolate Box

If life is like a box of chocolates
I can only assume it's meant to be devoured
rapidly, and wholeheartedly,
the pretty gold foil of childhood eagerly discarded
to get to the good stuff.
And when the first layer of goodness
is gone
you realize all too suddenly
you only have half left
and even though it's true
there's some marzipan in your past
and in your future,
waiting to take you by surprise
with its clash of soapy texture
and a hint of bitterness.
You know it's going to be worth it
when you get to the richness of the truffles.
But those are for another time;
right now you're full of it all
and on the brink of sickness,
so you try to put back the layer of gold
even though it doesn't sit quite straight
and rattles around on top
of a cheap and empty plastic tray.

Obstacle

Obstacle

There was an impassible
obstacle
back there
somewhere.

I guess when it was labeled
insurmountable
they weren't banking
on me bridging the gap
between stone walls
with my body
and bending myself
over boulders.

I'd have reached back
to bring you out
of the dark, damp
confines
where cool walls shade
moisture and moss
from the sizzle of the sun,

but you're not here.
Nobody is,
since when I overcame
the indomitable
I did it alone.

So now this place
I've attained,
by wedging my body,
working slowly upward,
this place
with its royal rock,
this place
spread out and shining,
belongs to nobody
but me.

And back there,
somewhere,
is a boulder
assuring my solitude,
keeping you
in the sunless
slot,
a slit in the ground
I step over
while exploring
the vastness
just an impossible leap
above.

Treading Carefully

Treading Carefully

Capped with crispness,
the thin crust ripples
when pressed,
and bubbles skirt along
the icy underside.
Grass stems poke through,
straws letting in air,
weak points
radiating cracks,
as my foot forces
water out around the edges.

One foot breaks through,
a cold rush.
Nothing that delicate
can hold
under constant pressure
and water wells up
its release a relief
like a secret you knew
you couldn't keep.

Troubles with Chess

Troubles with Chess

Sometimes I think the problem is that you can't decline to move.
There's this assumption that movement is progress
and that progress is good.
But if one side is on defense, having established a firm position
bunkered down behind a line of pawns,
to move is to weaken, and "progress" leads to death.

Sitting tight is the order of the day,
propped up in dunes, rifles at the almost-ready
defending the sea of glaring grains behind,
while it ungratefully insinuates itself
into our every orifice.

When we drop our pants, that orifice, too
is inundated. The reverse-tornado spirals up
through makeshift bathroom floors.
Cool tile but a memory to calloused feet
now used to sunburn and splinters.
Plumbing no more intricate than the shovel
propped at the door. Sign reads:
Cover your crap

Binoculars are raised more than rifles
though each bear witness to the scouring, wind-slung sand.
So, too, do our bodies, as micro-scratches on the glass
of lenses and scopes are mirrored in the angry redness
where the clothing slipped, and once breached,
rubbed raw against the skin.

We aren't police; every bullet does not require a signature,
paperwork filled out to reside in metal drawers
in case someone loses count.
No, we fire countless bullets. "Bet you can't hit that can,"
and four minutes later there is no can,
just a bunch of bored guys with sandy guns
that still shoot straight.

So here we sit,  shooting the shit,
And shooting at shit
And shitting in holes in the sand.

Skepticism

Skepticism

The clouds could open up
revealing the face of god
and I would attribute it
to a phenomenon of weather,
an odd congruence of wind
and stratospheric distortion,

So ready am I with explanations.

"I feel Him when..."

When your endorphins kick in,
when you can't stand alone,
when mass reassurance
is the most volatile form
of peer pressure.

A man could walk across a lake,
his glowing halo hazy
in the morning mist,
arms outstretched as the blind
drop their canes
and the homeless cluster
around wine-spouting
water fountains,
and I'd say,
"no."

For I have seen illusions before,
seen rings pass through rings,
seen scarves appear
from billowing sleeves
and seen on television
effects so special
that water-walking
is mundane.

Church

Church

The church is the biggest thing in town.
Huge, hewn stone, hauled hundreds of miles,
a testament to Christianity.
A monument in itself, to the rightness
of righteous belief,
for who could haul and hew
if they knew
their questions would go unanswered,
their inquisitions, begged on bended knee,
fly out of flying buttresses,
bounce off the belltower,
and bring nothing but silence?

Belief needs no concrete.
The tons of stone are enough,
the unbending, balustraded nave
brooks no bouts of doubt.
Its physicality manifests the antithesis
of my infirmity,
for my beliefs have have never sparked
such superior structure,
such skyward-seeking symbology,
such arduous adoration,
never allowed me assurance to commit
wholly,
to assert my authority over attention.

You can't help but look up to it,
neck craned and cricked in stricture.
You can't help but hear it,
the ringing adulation of the bells
extolling virtues in idyllic scripture.
So who am I to doubt
the devout
as I wander,
ghostly,
unseen and un-momentous below?