(I)
Johnny flits
like sparks from
static touch,
stings skin patches numb
and rubs hands
like uncut phantom limbs.
He rubs elbow
creases
into dry, smooth peaks.
He keeps busy.
The gulp method
keeps his buzz afloat
as the sud-line lowers
its film
from the crystal lip.
If only, oh
if only
each glass
were a well
distended, descending
its dark worm of liquid
beneath table-top lacquer,
if, sweet, if so
then Johnny's dark-worm throat
would answer those
malted depths
with vacuum.
(II)
Tapped Tyler
twiddles his thumbs,
tastes
his raw gums, and
nurses
a buzz
from the faithfully
sloshing bronze
breezy hop infused
wet-nurse
wetting his lips with
artificial happiness
like a sprinkler's dewey fog, a
sticky mist of yeast colored
cold liquid-gold.
(Cat Cry)
This cat
just doesn't shut up.
It's the first
truly mewling sound
to
pierce his ears, to
pry his
sleep-searching head
from awkward
side-slung laying
(a crooked fetal
line
dividing the bed)
to look up
through star-punctured dark
and mumble reluctantly,
"What the fuck
does that cat want?"
At least it's not an existential query.
It's the
domestic cat-cry
theory of food,
rather simple, two-step
geometry
as only a thing
more aware
of the common denominator
of surviving each moment
can be.
Life that close
to the stomach
doesn't
make you a killer;
it makes you
complain.
She does this
for
the old smell
held fresh
in pastel colored tins,
thumb tabs
pointing
to well-fed
felicitous kitties;
all for that taste
of orange-brown
puree, shaped
like rotten sea-food
molè, each hill
plopped
with a gurgle
as air seeps
between
the brackish fish-syrup
and its quivering mound
of processed
sea-stars, dolphin teeth,
horrors of the deep
cleaned, gutted, and
chopped to fine paste
for feline consumption.
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