The Cacographer

A series of minipoems (they're not quite standalone)(I'm not going to do 7 posts today)(also, CoW is solidifying. Hopefully I'll have it done by May)

I guess it’s not cancer after all
I always thought
I’d be the one
to leave you.

Rehab
I’m an internet junkie
she moaned
sobbing in her mother’s arms.

I don’t write songs
There once was a man from nantucket
who kept all oh fuck it.

By the light
Sweat tastes of the ocean
and blood tastes of rust.
The leather mat is long dead dust
and the gloves are oily lotion.

The golden age
We sit among billows of smoke
swarming my beard and obscuring your hand
until I can't tell what wrinkles
or what fingers belong.

And you, for your part,
don't move, sitting like Mt. Rainer

Which is fine, I think
to say, and twitch my hand
on the counter, wishing
for a smoke.

The night your friends asked who I was
It's late
I say to you, wounded leg
in the door, tattered khaki
stained and wet.

Taking note, you rub
your thigh and tell
me you'll be in soon.

Cowardice
Holding onto concentration
she flicks her eyes toward mine
tasting the blue and the green
and I smile at my book.

posted by OrangeDrink @ 9:05:00 PM