It changes more than life.
It changes all the laws.
I think I’ll have a garage sale.
Come rummage through the empty wine glasses
left over from toasting yesterday.

43
divorcee
on the street
fresh meat
munchy treat
eyes glazed and bright
deer caught in headlights.
Time to spike life:
take a slow walk
to a deep river.

THE DAY’S IN/OUT CHRONICLES

The meeting place (#1)

Driving here was nice, I thought;
clean, crystal clear,
sea breeze air.
Not the usual:
muggy, misty,
sticky, stagnant,
mosquitoes so thick
there’s a trick
not to inhale
the tiny, pointy bodies:
Hell’s gift, they are,
designed to keep the Newcomers
away from the bay.
I pulled into the motel;
walked down to the beach and back;
returned to the room;
awaiting your late arrival.
Soon the door opened;
you crawled into my circled arms.

SHHHHHH!!! (#2)

My passion laughs for the joy of it.
Ecstasy of a moment
moving my eyes from saddness to merriment.
My mouth long down and frowned
turns up, enveloped by your lover’s smile,
while I tilt my body
encasing you for a while.
Must the oneness of us
always be locked in
with
muffled sighs,
stifled groans,
moans in subdued tones?
Rather let my hands dance
in rhythm down your spine
while you entwine my mind
and overlay my laughter.

WAIT! (#3)

You dance above me,
a great smiling giant.
I cannot keep up with you
I will out last you
but you out distance the pant in me.
Now and again stop and wait.
It shall not take long.
I won’t always be late,
I will come now
and again,then perhaps again.
I perceive my body and my speech
have the same long slow southern drawl.
So now and again, wait, damn it.

Lover (#4)

"How long do we have?"
I asked my heart.
"Until the hair on your chest grows gray,
will we continue to be this way,
once a month lovers,
Tuesday through Thursday?"
Sounds more like a menstrual cycle to me.
Not clandestine sensuality.

Come & Go Security (#5)

See you sometime.
Tomorrow?
No, soon though.
Next month?
Maybe, we’ll see.
Wait for me.
Be good, you hear.
Okay,
I had a great day.
Sure.
The Inn Door
slowly, quietly closed.

I need a beer.

Hardee’s 6:30 a.m. (#6)

The silent,
staring,
automated,
un-individuated
society of the non-committed
apathetic sapiens
sitting sleepy over
sausage, bisquets,
cardboard cheese and coffee.
The ritualistic communion fare
passed out from fast food alters
to the moaning masses:
breakfast of last night’s motel champions;
seeking absolution.

NEXT

HARVIE’S ON HULL STREET (#7)

Dance with me,
just dance.
Don’t put your body
next to mine.
Don’t run your hands
on my behind.
Possibly,
if you could
look me in the eye,
or remember my name,
you would know that I am not,
most certainly not,
one dance
one drink
one lay,
at least today.

What’s your name?

Where is the EXIT off this merry-go-round?