Antiverb

I am the stone and the seed underneath.

Water will erode and feed me

and I will grow.

in response I

I hear you speak of escape,

of a dirty bus stop at the edge of the earth

and single bag packed with the essentials:

a toothbrush, cat food, and sex--

but I am told by people to mind my step

to fear bombs in the ground, in the sky,

and carried within holy men and pregnant women.

I am told to stay away from folks with clothes on

as I cannot seduce them all.

On the tiled bathroom floor, where I write in isolation,

my laugh echoes through steam, at people and you,

a naked and limbless poet.

I laugh because bombs need not scare me away

from the anti-social creature man has become

and the call of the open road

has been out of tune for decades

people are bears in caves,

and I prefer water.

My universe is made of water.

Time

Though I am told you are old immovable,

a large and ominous cloud above my head,

I cannot see you there.

Sometimes I catch glimpses of you

as a bundled winter couple,

gloves about to touch as you turn the corner

often seven strides ahead of me as I walk home

but when I return to by bed,

and can count the tics of my steady heart

I grab you and hold you close

until morning weakens my grip.

What I want it to be.

It is the day after the storm and a broken tree is outside

our window. It has cracked, its insides struck black.

It is torn and fallen.

I look for you in the coffee nook of the kitchen

but see only faint grey sunlight peek through

the clouds and curtains and onto the coffee table.

Messy brown halos become its ornaments.

I wonder where you are, besides missing from the bed.

Did you take your coffee elsewhere? To the wet roof?

Or in your robe with our neighbors by the tree

to comment on the carnage washed in.

Suddenly, in the eggshell hallway

between the kitchen and bathroom

I hear the shower run.

Steam rises from cracks in the door

and the smell of coffee becomes overwhelming.

crawled up

in bed, a dead stone

with heavy,

slippery eyes --

hand curled

under head,

a weak fist, drool on

my forearm, these are

days consciousness

chooses to nag

in my open ears

and fragile decisions

bite softly

at my leg

my heavy breaths

bring me closer to

movement and death

view from the other side

Since my last paycheck your clothes

have become tattered and a bit worn.

Your face has become a bit green

and its skin seems to be falling off the cheek-

bone. I can see your teeth are chipped

and yellow. I didn’t know that they were.

And I wish you would look at my face,

or at least with a bit more consciousness.

Your translucent eyes affixed to my meaty

and probably delicious pork belly physique

is a little disconcerting

and you should close your open maw,

a long spiderweb strand of drool

is pooling on my welcome mat.

Oh, we’ve never met?

Well then excuse me for the confusion,

as several of your folk come to batter

my door every hour. Who are you?

Wait. Come to think of it,

I don’t want to know. Do you mind

if I shoot you in the face with this shotgun?