OBSIDIAN

Mirrors are slow moving liquids And in ten lifetimes, their puddles Will never be seen. There are mirrors Still intact From the bronze reflections Of a falling Renaissance To the poisonous glass, tin and mercury Of post apocalyptic smiles And ornate, Victorian women Pulling brushes through Their natural hair. My Doctor has told me My lungs sound fine My heart beats In time with the modern clock. My blood is clean And my cholesterol is healthy. Still, there is something wrong With what’s on the outside. Oxidized skin Insect eye freckles Bruises only appear Under black light. What’s on the outside Isn’t reflective. It’s bony, crushing luminosity A tombstone nose Oversized, boneless Body parts - inflated life. If you think that’s bad – Don’t open my pill box mouth Or filet my rib cage To finger through the flesh of my heart. It’s said we’re all unique But on the inside we’re all horror show. We’re all muck and gelatin. We’re all gooey, filled with spaghetti nerves. There are slices of bodies Indexed in museum glass. But there are no mirrors. Water was the first mirror.

DAY TRADES

Kick the sleeping dog in the gut

and smack the inebriated porn starlet

to wake them both from their

annoying slumber.

Wash the nicotine and the carbon monoxide

from your fragile hands and watch the clumps

of soap suds slither down the drain

like tired, over grown amoebas.

There is music playing in the lobby

and banter escalating on the sidewalk

of this tired, peeling hotel

haunted by dead janitors and bell hops.

The elevator takes the living

to the top floor during the day

while discretely taking corpses back down

in the middle of the night.

It’s a perfect system

built by nefarious engineers

and business men

looking to keep their bank accounts

fully stocked at all times.

SKIP

Who the hell am I to tell the yellow dog

On the winter pine colored ottoman

To stop licking the course fabric?

Who the hell am I to deny her

The pleasure of dragging her soft tongue

Over the woven threads of the material?

It must feel good to her

And just because all of my habits are bad for me

Why should I stop her

From enjoying an inert addiction.

I have a new funeral to attend everyday

For the rest of my life.

There are things worse than picking at a scab

Or chewing the dead flesh next to a fingernail

There are things worse than death.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

There is repetition with out change.

DRAIN FLIES

One of their ancestors

Must have flown in

On a dry night

In search of water

And a settlement

For its offspring to grow

After hatching,

They live solitary lives

Swirling around my swats

The aroma of shit

And cigarette smoke

Hovers as their sky

One lands on the dark mirror

And I smack it with my

Soapy, wet palm

The fluid drips

With the flow

Of semen

It’s a horrible way

To die, smashed

Into a still ligature

What does one

Think about, fluttering

From the tub

Leaving the safety

Of the copper pipe

The nourishment of water

Navigating the square walls

Of a tiny bathroom

Never seeing the sun

Unable to find a mate

To make love outside

And fill another drain

Most look at their birthplace

As a spiraling conduit to hell

They see it as home.

TAKE OUT

There is Chinese food In a foam container. The chicken, pig, cow, and shrimp are hellaciously hot Good enough for a demon’s palette but torture for mortals. I douse it all in duck sauce to improve the bland flavor. All the while not even noticing the rain pouring outside the window. I pick out the pieces I want and disregard the rest upsetting the entire animal kingdom and its wasted sacrifices. I wonder if the animals I am eating were loved. I wonder if any of them had been given names.