Sunday Morning, Pink and Black: Ten for Today


Awake. Dark room, light shivering between slatted tears in sleep’s cloth curtain, no,

It’s not cold. 

Frozen eyes, shuttered left, off kilter for Sunday morning’s churchyard calm, dazed and scarcely hunted.
 
It feels encrusted shut, my eye, right, no left–at the shake of a quiet mind’s head. 

I’m not sick.

It’s just…just…not like a Sunday. 

Swollen, itchy, red…no, I feel pink but not like a wisp of ultra violet setting rays into the dusk.

Like pulled cotton candy, taut, sticky, stretched to disappearing.

I have pink eye.

It’s red and puffy, and the itch that can’t be scratched for the contagion that she brings.

I’m catching.

Do I call in, call up, call out this small disease, this lodged discomfort, virulent invader?

I look it up.

Warning signs, good sense and no regrets; I confess to all I anticipate in a day’s walk-about, 

a Sunday.

“I…I have pink eye. No, I think my hands touching my eye, touching you.” Can I see you without touching you?
 
Will your money be repulsed, sweet-toothed craving not crusty but cultured,

the dissonance like shimmied NO, a gulp, grimace and gag.

I should stay.

But I go, and I lie without guilt, smile without repercussion, moan without regret and leave, sailing

like the marine layer over our beach city, puffy, cloudy, windy and cool-breezy could care less.

I’ve planted seeds now.

The growing season well nigh past still yields a muddy crop, sunken, aphid-riddled, shriveled dawn.

I took camera digitally clicked snapshots.

Thick waist sloped into fleshy hips, fortresses to meaty buttock questions to the sheets.

Am I asleep? 

Or am I just pretending you loved me kindly, tenderly with your chestnut grin and molten eyes,
 
clear, clean and molasses.
 
No, not pink. Ink. Like night, pintip pupil black.

When Darkness Comes (Daylight): Poem 3


Daylight friezes trim heights,

Stony edifices still standing

Ancient decaying battles,

Fading listless gray above

Technicolor tile mosaics.
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

Photoshopped to his taste,

Scrumptiously thin-thin waifs

Adorn full fashion billboards,

Eye-catching corners round

Apartment ledge jumpers.
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

Poised for the leap, these

Downers decorate the city

Like gargoyle guardians,

Villains to pop protagonists

Puffing smokey smile rings.
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

When sirens slice vulnerable

Sleep like death opened out,

Who can hear the whispers,

Tunneled mice scampering,

Twisting babies suffocating?
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

In frozen wincing skies hidden

Behind baby blue blinds drawn

The day’s delusional dreaming,

But when the darkness comes 

Noble neon lights us illuminate:
 

When darkness seizes day’s night

Night Reflections: upon returning from the late shift

  
The air smells like parafin, peculiar for a sea town

where the air is thick with briny life, salty and swollen,

a burning candle somewhere aromatizes cottages

suburban slakes of tract homes cut to sidle boulevards.

And the sweat of my back drying astringent-tight

skin shrunken in sere retreat until the morning dew.

It is cool and soothing to be motionless, settling in.