Genre Specific (series)

Genre Specific

Simply Peachy

Your skin is like a white flesh peach
paired well next to top sirloin beef
and if we have to be discreet
publicly I'm impeached
sitting on a beach on beach street
drinking muai thai, reading a juniper leaf
waiting for the corner store
to sell cornucopia's
so I can just hold it firm
for a sinner's birth
under a minute's turn
while the winter's worm
burrows surely for another term.

Fruit flies displace before hands decay
so they can't interface with another oil barrel race
and items stack up, while images get backed up
on hard drives, cursing about apartheid
but consistently never lived it,
pdfs beat spreadsheets in another scrimmage
as the sale today is trimmed, green cabbage
I'll have to take another vacation
as a phantom to just fathom
why my opinions are soaked in broth
served with bread crumb croutons
spiced with thyme and a coupon
cut out from an advert calendar
selling photographs where the booths gone.

The line is too busy looking at screens
to form a circle, lights flash forward
waiting for the next Big Three
jump the line and still wait hopelessly.
Statements, that's my favorite
wonder where the hours went, into entertainment
they absorbed me like the magazines still stale photographs
still absorbed me
and I read and read and read, waiting for the stars story
to intertwine between my capillaries
but they only crawled as slow as a caterpillar
buried by milkweed
grossly disproportionate to it's seed size
while the soil performs sourly
I'm only hourly
so I sit, proud to be.































Simply Compound

Remember when we seemed fine
we laid bordered on a thin line
and without time?

The memory of a back nine
where you shot par, and you shot mine
the placement of a tee with enough sun
to cause misery, the ball teetered unevenly simply.

The grass felt repetitive
wheels spun on edges again
while plagiarism was my rampant twin, she said
and we went back, to the wine and cheese
watched mature men pick crackers from their teeth
and the sound dink made us think one of us was taking another drink
so we glanced at each other, made loud noise,
said capiche in our french voice
we had a choice so we held each other in the rotating doors
around and around
the sound funneled through the town
where the night calmed down,
winter whimpered wishing whispers
street sweep, mind weak, my week.
thighs creak once we hit pavement
and the Darkness left the moon light
nothing but amazing
shining through fog on one hazy street
which left the endless streak of cars a little crazy.
because, you see, each sedan snapped like a photograph
and the next one already sped past before the last one was time stamped
and headaches started to emerge, under false inertia
fell folding facsimile, motion moved me, file denial under M
and watch the watch watching, peak idealistically
waiting for every wedding to end vicariously.