Pink Slip

He buys a round

of pink slips.

Worry not,

it won’t come

to you but

it will find

a throat

that will have

to chug it down.

First round’s on

he who hasn’t

a care in the world

bulldozing

knocking down

what’s real

to find what

he thinks is lost

in the past.

He’s a sad man

with a clown jig.

I cannot bear

witness.

I hold it.

I’m not pink

slipped through

the cracks.

Is it enough

for the sad man

to not know.

His is a slip

I don't envy.

Point of View

In slow seconds

of the day

I wander

to before.

But it does

no good

to look

back there.

I am third

person in

the fading

light.

It’s best

to come back

to where I

is found.

The Worm

My finger snakes across the table

to demonstrate the path

that a dissecting tool would take

to split the skin of a worm.

Its smooth, taut shape

I will slice and pin back,

careful not to cut too deeply

severing its ribless body in half.

Lowly invertebrate:

fish bait - earth composter

the all’s clear after rains -

neither sexed – both sexed

opened for discovery,

guts revealing aortic arches:

five loops carrying blood

to its five beating hearts.

Five hearts, four more

than human, to torment

and devour the one

so easily insinuated into.

My finger remembers

the smooth, sinuous skin 

that covers his cheek.

How did he work his way  

in and not fertilize?

Smoke In My Eyes

Cornea burn.

Corps burning.

Heart burnt.

The visor

not down

lets sun blaze

enzymes

that protect

blue eyes.

White  vision 

blind drive home.

Western-fried,

my core smolders:

smoke   no   flame.