Coffee Pot and Spoon The eyes lose their vision the ears lose their hearing the tongue is filled with nicotine, and I am not there. I’m not I’m not there, the place that drank me down long ago that beat me, made me cry, and enraged me. I’m here, in the empty room with the light off. Rage fades and becomes a thorn, and the thorn breaks, dropping into the ash tray. I speak. My lips move mechanically. “I’m not.” “I’m not.” And then the clocks speak. The clocks talk about breakfast, lunch, dinner, The table speaks, and the side dishes speak. When I open the book, the letters speak. The letters dare to tell of the old days, the past, history my roots before I was born which I don’t know. When I close the book, the cool wind blows. At noon, the clock on the tower speaks. It speaks of breakfast and lunch and dinner and breakfast and lunch and dinner. The coffee pot speaks. The spoon laughs. My stomach laughs my bowels laugh and my anus laughs. The wind blows in the alley in the morning. The boy is missing one leg, and the girl is singing a popular song. The eyes trying to create an incident wipe away the incident. The shops shut their doors. My anus shuts its doors. Bloody toilet paper lies on the street.
printed in the poetry collection Faces Upon the Dining Table