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Tap Yard July 19 You aren't worth and Orchid Dust
You aren't worth it
Tilted umbrellas along a line of picnic tables.
Each word that comes from my mind,
Is a line you, or me, or he said
Under covers, breathing each other's air,
As my genitalia throbbed to be next to the
he or me or we
That said the words that I hear,
Staring alone along that line of tilted umbrellas.
Sigh deep to keep the fluids in,
My eyes leak, my thighs ooze, slick, my pipes, literally at my house, seep.
It’s a sieve, in my life right now,
Draining soul and sustenance from sinks, drains, showers, and
from between my thighs, out of my eyes, out of a burnt heart-
To burn the freakin' tilt out of those umbrellas.
Orchid Dust
It slipped to the bricks,
A flight
From a window
Open at
Midnight,
The orchid, given to
Polish the feelings
Rasped by an unpolished man.
A tick of the finger nail
A click on clay pot
Sent it to its two storied
Demise
Swept up with no trace
By the dawn patrol
Of street cleaners with brooms
Swept into dustbins
Or maybe even rescued
With no clue to its retinue
Of accommodating women
Silenced with a wink, a gift,
A threat that cooperation
Was much more prized than their worth
So its satisfying crash
Echoed in brick alleys
Soothed more than the trinkets
Bestowed as gags.
The beautiful orchid
More cherished dead
Now, than it was alive.
