You mean like toothpicks in toast
I mean like when coffee goes to the dark place
These pocket warmers that you keep as spares
Are better off being used as food warmers
They will never be used
Not by us
When you smoke pot
I smell sad confusion
The first tendril hooks up in my brain
But it becomes a stale dusty trail
Even as the second waft
Makes its way up nostril
These are called changes
And they occur without warning
As does my desire to punish people
Make objects pay for their unwieldy masters' abuse
Cover ashes with dirt and forget and step in it later
Burning the big toe
Even though it is the most robust
Perhaps because it is the most robust
When we clutch backs
With paws
After long withdrawals
It feels like safety
Each slight movement of arms and chest
Gathering more of each other in
Is like sacred
And it feels right and proper
All the oddities of past days
Wash away
Not big enough to collect rough
They melt smooth
Right off the bodies
Making shapes in the drain
For someone else to thrash and cleanse
These are our victories
Not to be confused with
Stagnation, the mundane, groundhogs
--
12.17.09
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