To the Woman with Invisible Legs

They've appeared again

The feet of a woman born 

of denim and desk chair, 

at home in the arms of 

some slip-ons.  

I had forgotten them 

while they were tucked away, 

talking politics 

of 17th century motherhood 

with the cotton of your panties.  

she has been opened

on hinge

and her intestines

held on to

The Burial

when you were touched

there began your 

tragedy

one tiny raised ridge of print

from snake finger

tipped in Gold, based in

flesh    [silver]   bone

on colorless hair

then oh! the quakes!

we did not smell the ash-

grey trails blazing

there was no time to prepare

Untitled MLXXIV

  How are

         you as a catch-all

    your ghosts?

What are they

         for everyone joined laughing,

   smiling about?

         and maybe better off.

Patrick of Democracy

Patrick wears home-made distressed Levi's.   They look dirty but I'm giving the benefit of the doubt because I do not know this man.  I do know the type.  What a head of hair he's got!  You do not need to speak well or teach well to be a professor.  You do not need to be in shape or possessing of supreme fashion sense.

But Prof Great-Hair, you lazy bastard, you!  You embody your career.  I assume you are smarter than you let on.  Smart and well read.  Your sensible shoes become you.  If I should creep on you and find your number, would you answer?  Your phone is leather-bound and on your hip - just in case, I wonder.

He laughs.  Our eyes connect.  I picture him as a mall Santa and that, too, is fitting.  

this is my metaphor for being unable to produce any writings

It's like an iceberg in here.  Except below the surface of ice isn't just more ice.  Below the surface of ice are flowers, dead flowers probably.  Yeah, dead flowers.  Flowers that have bent stems and missing petals and sad colors.  Lovely flowers.  

Below the flowers is more ice.