week of waiting.

bathroom faucet

as a child i spent
a great deal of time
gazing raptly at the
cast iron spigot
pocked and flecked along
the length, ringed
with the built up
rock that could someday,
maybe become stalagmites.
riveted to the spot
i would observe the
gathering condensation
growing fatter until
the suspended crystal
shaped round, magnified
and contained the
universe before its
imagined arms gave way
and it fell screaming
into the basin
to shatter and splash
to bits and then
my tiny eyes would
travel back up to the
moss-lined cave to
observe the conception
of the next to fall.



before a drop

the moment before
a drop of liquid falls
is it angry? frustrated
at dangling in endless
suspension, just at
the point of gravity,
feeling the swelling
that means it must
be soon; feeling its
roots pulling stretched
thread by thread,
disentangling as the ends
are dragged mercilessly
are there others behind
adding voices of encouragement,
adding to the frustrating
impatience of the moment?
the agony of a pause
before a drop.



since when?

since when am i expected
to be so fucking proper
with my sailors mouth
and my bawds brain?
shall i wear high collars
buttoned to my chin?
keep my ankles properly crossed
left over right and clasp
my gloved hands in my lap?
smile demurely when addressed
and never leave the house
without my parasol and purse?

let's get this straight, let's
make it clear, there
seems to be some
misunderstanding here.
i was, still am, and
will always be unclean,
only a step or two above
the queen of the trailer park
and only through blind luck.



fear

oral fixation steps onto the floor
cigarette follows cigarette
fingernails peeled off in shreds
layed open far into the quick.
when fingers bleed i chew my lips
until every bite stings and burns
in the manner of impending cold sores.
the tender lining of my cheeks
is a feast for self-consumption
as if eating myself shred by shred
could ward off disaster.