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Archive for January 10th, 2011

Lunch in the Worst Place

Bushy, gray hair swimming with the flow, the stomach is big and it pushes the table away from the large blob.  The hair curls in endless spirals and it hangs inelegantly from the large head.  This man appears to be that freaky clown who always scared me so much when I was young.  I inherit that fear more powerfully now, feeling fragile as an even smaller child without any person here to protect me.  A purple scarf is draped perfectly in the middle of the back of the adjacent chair, perpendicular to the floor, and on top of an unblemished, bright white down parka which seems to be an intimidating hospital coat.  She would be head of surgery, but she is too old and her hands shake violently while her head shakes in a contrary rhythm.  Catsup appears in beautifully arranged blobs, a scene from the modern art museum with some of the catsup on a thin, sad-looking hamburger.

Across from the doctor and the clown sits a professor with perfectly manicured gray hair and sculpted beard, with slick, brown coat that looks as though it could be a door mat – It is strong with thick threads so it would be capable, but it is handsome, nonetheless.  He acts as though he is possessing the attractive, middle-aged woman who stops to feed him fries before she sits next to him.  Though not at all likely, she appears to be pregnant.  The swollen tire overwhelms her large breasts in a way that brings on a tinge of sorrow.  As soon as she sits, Read the rest of this entry »

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Melting Threads of a Soldier

wearing the worn threads

of a soldier who should be caged,

dark suit seems to be

bright enough, crisp enough

to allow conformity.

she gasps in frustration,

sends me off to find

her security.

she knows it is an

impossible mission.

the threads melt to a

guttural ugliness

under her parting stare.

search for worth or value,

hide in the bomb shelter

that is a cubicle for soldiers,

praying never to be needed

for this mission again,

knowing failure is here soon,

knowing that security

may never be possessed

by a man in wilting, melting,

shredded rags,

by a man of the lesser class,

by a man without God,

who needs to be the subject

of prayers of the superior class.

 

I am submitting this one for the Thursday Poets Rally.  There is a great collection over there.

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