Not Sure When

I’m all in black drinking black coffee.  They’re chattering, Moses a harlequin blue found on Passover renamed Mr. Peepers, Babe shrill green a little bitchy she even laid an egg.  Little white mistake, nothing came of it.  She took it badly, while Mr. Peepers strutted his stuff on stick legs.  A ritual but with conviction.  It’s either night or the curtains are cinched.  I ignore the phone.  My loud red splash hangs on a hook.  Chew, swallow, write it down: meat is moving.  Just to let you know your hermit crab is still alive.  Saturday pencil me in, I love lakes.  By Monday, an airport sensation, thoughts got loose.

Memento Mori

A crowd gathers around the site of an explosion.  They fear contagion from blood and germs.  At this time each person has an extra pair of genitals that glow in the dark.  Anything caught is pollution.  What was the gender of what was said?  Rudimentary, mouthless, urgent.  The people are jubilant.  The kids, me, people, each mouth full of sweet and sticky.  Pardon me, I’m a student of your beautiful language.  I love its odd rolling o’s, inaccurate curves and sudden plunges, spoken by its re-enactors and their breech-loading muskets.  I cannot verify the trajectories, where they splatter.  Not cleaning up this mess, me.  I’m up front, center square.  Nail one stick to another call it home.  We open on leafless and dry.  Sir! human error is always a good excuse, sir!