On the Whirligig of Head
A hot day to seek
that perfect ride
in the fair,
but since all are spread
within my head
I drag my younger sel
from the house of mirrors
where he sees him melt
to the horror tunnel
where we stand on the deck of heat,
chase the summer whale
with harpoon of disaster in our hands.
And we ride a mare in the carousel.
A hot day. I can hardly like
the pillows my body touches,
and cannot push them away.
I shake my head. A giggle
will reverberate and escape
to the other side of the skull.
Hand Towel
So I take the hand towel from my daughter, my voice soft, say, “See these green stripes; there grass grew thick. There elves live to hide, and on the mowed rows in between they emerge to test our belief.”
This I also breaks into your house, threats you because you have said, I exist only in the tales he spins.
The Confused Truths
The song stuck in my mind/head
was never recorded.
Somewhere it originated; perhaps
while standing with my palms sweating,
heart scattered between its beats,
perplexed in front of the heaps
of choices arrayed in a supermarket row,
failing to differentiate one brand from another,
the truths still within their expiry date from
the beliefs staled. I fail to maintain a scale,
fail the lyrics unscribed before finalization.
You say I speak a lot about the song,
write about it in letters. I also chronicle
winter sun, walking downslope, geese
flocking over watery silhouette although
I have not visited such oblivions.
Hence logic pardons me from
the murder I talk about often.
