Monday, November 9, 2015


Dizzy with light
from a frontage of windows,
I can feel my lips passing
wisps of pleasant fluff

with a mild mannered 
hostess, behind this sterile

stainless steel conveyor, which
certainly wasn't built 
to accommodate the hugeness
of this encounter, but nevertheless

over which
are nervously carried—both of our most
urgent motivations this morning:

hers—to earn,
mine—to feel sated 
by an elusive feeling
that I've done that already.

But even as our shared air
continues, warm and used-up now, to rise
in cute pools which tingle my senses,

I am nearly drown
by the thundering chorus
of various would-be contestants
inside me, chiding—

Can it be true? Is this all
there is? And then—somehow,
alone again, white paper in-hand

finally, flush with a winner's
grin, pantomiming
to muzak—Isn't this plenty? More 
than enough?