Silent confusion in the red dust cloud. the rumble of fear grows then takeoff!&Down you go,a little wind-up motor in the birth canal at first lightBlack pants, pain in the neck, torn shoe, Saturday.
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Short Poem No.21
You think you’re paying for it, but I know you aren’t. I’m as close as your notepad, feel the cashier move ? Always the same, up at six, draft at nine-thirty, the little fucker Biff learns manufacturing or it’s ‘stop tinkering’ That dropper draft your thumbtack, dollars and blowtorch
Short Poem No.20
To her, he is the perfect specimen of time and place,To himself, he is too close to something very wrong. Halfway home she remembers the bracelet in the kitchen,draped on the stained wood chair – she closes the window.I hate these damn boots.
Short Poem No.19
Dripping, she said, and stalactitesor stalagmites, which ones go up?then, near the beach, on a benchcovered in pigeon poo, the green maskswere painless mistakes.Bottle of water, bottle of beer.
@tomerk …
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AMERICAN WINE WRITER 