Dramma Giocoso

Too bad your mother fell down a well. Too bad your milk went bad. Too bad. Too bad foxes got to the chickens, and all the king's men came running down the mountain, swinging their sharp spears and shouting sickening sentences. Too bad you didn't take care of that lingering library fee. Too bad it was so hot today. You found a coupon for a free sandwich, too bad you had to apply for a debit card to get your pastrami on rye, nothing is free, except for your new Bank of America t-shirt. Too bad it's the wrong size. Too bad it's the wrong night for November to be hanging around, selling discount cigarettes and little wooden carvings of giraffes, maybe even a zebra or two. Too bad your neighbor's dog was run over, and too bad he blames it on you, shit, you just threw a frisbee in the street.

Too bad your coffee takes like mildew and motor oil, and too bad you even know what mildew and motor oil taste like. Too bad it takes so long for your shower to warm. Too bad you ruined the life of that poor child, taking his invisible dog on a leash. Too bad your neighbor wouldn't accept it as able replacement for the dog he killed. Surely, the sheriff, the CIA, the secret service, and the neighborhood watch will be on to you soon, your licentious history a mock dramma giocoso. Too bad the Chinese restaurant serves Pepsi instead of Coke. Too bad the stars aren't out tonight; you covered the town in cloud. Too bad.

 

Inside There, is a Rumbling

Crystals and switches waiting
to switch are in the next room among distant
lover murmuring. Coors expecting a taste
like water. Somewhere inside there, is a rumbling
and it's approaching fast sounds like gaining speed never stopping never telling
            never showing sign of knowing how and when it's going to

 

But it will,
we know this because our mothers told us so.
And we can trust our mothers, can't we? Some so.
And where is it in our hearts that we can find
a place to dig into, and the smell of footsteps
cannot follow us? And the roads flow like stale ginger ale
to the ribbon end of starting destination? And the bourbon
stained some bitter sweet as sugar drum ferries
dipped in catatonic tendency agenda? We are
delicate pink cupcakes to be squished,
at least that's what my mother told me. Why,
what did yours tell you?

 

Cold Fly

Tomorrow I'll go out and buy a snow sled, otherwise I'd stay home and squash flies with quarters. The neighbor guy says green is just an ordinary color, but I know he doesn't mean it: seen him stretch out those camouflage wings. The window works as a web against light and as a siren for the wind's war cry. Bomb   Bomb   Bomb! the little suckers and let their bodies lie half-buried in sour explosion, gritty as crushed teeth between the toes, tarnished barrels smoke with a smile while I wear a white sheet as my cape—my cold fort camouflage against darkening snow.

Last week Lucy gave us all lipstick autographs, and I really think mine tenderly as the boldest. I would've returned the favor if there'd been room. But next week we'll break the lines and fire the flies to hell. And down they'll go—down the hill slush and sliding. With swift and swerving guilt, I harm only the flies that harm with immediate afterthought: What if he'd only been trying to tell me something important?