sick day

walking through the day like hot sand, barefoot
stumbling through stirring soup for the sick independent woman
and backing up in a straight line, squeezing squeaking tires on curbs
trying not to cry

you can't expect me to sit in class with a faucet nose
and listen to whiny 19th century bitches cry about nothing, lady
when i have a to be a driver by friday and sleep off disease till saturday
times not on my side, here

russel rustle, stirring ghosts

heart is a rabbit in a hurry, hungry
for sundry samples of memory, lovely
flashes of you in your tank are too much
for my stomach to keep down such little a lunch

i wish you the best, i’m wishing you well
but seeing you there is like being in hell
i’ll throw in the ocean my happiest token
to wash away notions of sad laughing swells

good friday

end of the week
minus one toenail
left eye red
green eyelashes

black branches stiffly
crawling up the spine
fever shriveled arms
thick tired neck

who cant be happy despite
morbid physical inventory
on a sunny friday that
ends this week forever

unexplained muscle pain rules

I didn't deposit my checks today
or go through my credit history
or read medieval literature
or write a paper about creative non fiction
or introduce the topic of gays in the media

I mostly just had a fever
and tried not to throw up.

but I did get to see the blue purple yellow lines
next to the lamp
where your shutters
across the room reflected