Marcel in Limbo
Leveled off ladders,
twisted cat-tails, willows
pawing at the otherwise
secular ground;

cackling baby mouse
scurrying across car lanes
during rush hour,
metamorphoses unyielding,
subliminal messages written
from the inbred lines on your
palm. The way a song tastes
after you get sick of it. The way
you lay lazily across my chest,
one hand on my cheek while
falling asleep, learning to breathe

Apartments over garages;
pledges of undying capitulation
and mirth; to have clung and needed
those spritely howls billowing up to the
night like chimney smoke though the
house is always cold; falling asleep
on the carpet, in a sleeping bag, before
a fire place, before a set of dresser drawers
stuffed fuller then bellies at mealtimes.

Skylarking Neanderthals – I'm really a gorilla,
just wearing her female mask today, just to affirm
that God doesn't exist today, though vows
over a gabled roof were more like lace then
words and while Isolde stands nude, skin cracking
into veins in the corner of my dark room, pointing
jealously -

Marcel puts his hand over my eyes,
bids me to sleep.