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Four Poems:
I.
I got spit shine
in my eyes
making the world
sparkle like diamonds
in the headlights
of an oncoming
steam roller.
Slow slow shimmers,
shattered under weight
like the skulls of
more interesting wrecks.
Spin shine is still spit
and you have to be rich
to find out if diamonds
really shatter.
II.
Shoot myself through the cheeks
with candy bullets.
Youth is
dwindling
into the future.
III.
A moth out side my window
struggles against the pane of glass,
trying to get to an old touch activated lamp.
It is brainless,
it is inconsequential,
this moth,
and yet there it is.
IV.
On weekends, the house maid
comes to clean the houses.
She doesn't speak English,
sadly, naturally,
but there is no awkward
chit-chat.
I find the loneliest spots
in this home-owner association
bull-shit,
to escape something about her.
Her detergent dry hands
probably work another job too.
I get back, and she's finished up.
I ask the poor lady,
can I give her a lift anywhere
she needs to be?
Another job, or her home?
And she accepts.
So I took her out there,
to a crowded trailer park,
and I guess I felt horrible.
I got back to the home,
clean as ever,
and continued to be a mess.
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KALOPSIA
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