Where my mouth used to be: coins
Bus driver’s maniac swerving
Making them fall out into the aisle.
“Currency”is the word used to
Describe the present time: the
Currency of seeing bare-boned
Trees up ahead and then behind means
I am being followed. Trees
Uproot as we speak, nickels and
Pennies falling out, chipping my teeth.
Kitchen sink sounds like a homily
Golddigger washes her coins
Spitting and scrubbing and shining
And praising the flowing waterfall
In the back of her mind that does not
Have any intention of running dry.
There is a windchime in the front of my brain and it swirls and sings
When your words full of oxygen and good intentions blow past me.
It is made of recycled vowels, plastic pieces from your seatbelt buckle,
A set of old speakers and the look you give me on all your decently decent days.
Your hands: keys
At all of the locked compartments
Of my beginner’s body.
Try the right one again.
life: Paris, France,
And you are the Eiffel
You are the
You Eiffel Tower
Me, my tourist body
And suddenly, I’m
Off the map.
Here is what happened:
You looked at me. Said nothing. Nodded.
Here is what I wanted to happen:
You looked at me, wrapped your four limbs around my tree of a body, weathered me down and sang me your poetry, accompanied by my off-beat finger snaps and possibly a harmonica.
Lying in bed--
To you and to myself.
We have believed
And white lies,
Lies that slide underneath
Your dresser and hibernate
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .