the recurrence of a routine task.
Standing over the Protestant bowl
youth confirming angle in hand,
a shadow of the thinnest possible wire
led down to a lens box
of no previously determinable presence.
Until now I hadn’t dribbled.
Shaken by a tiny panic of the gonads
like gasps from a dutiful adorer,
the wire was catgut.
I always run on the late side but
when had this been added to my schedule?
I monastically shaved my anus in the mirror
since the hair had become almost like fur.
Not unappealing yet confusing to sit on.
I managed to style it sparingly in Egyptian oil
then grab my Victorian partner’s harmonium,
respectfully finishing off my high-fives.
THE FACILE FATALISTS OF THE FAIRGROUNDS
The man who guessed your weight
shook your hand first
to see if you were full of feathers.
I could feel the air lift
as you floated chivalrously,
transported home then anchored to our chimney.
The neighborhood kids must be bored,
throw rocks at what
they consider an effigy.
Tomorrow is Sunday so
I work a double shift.
HANGERS-ON ON THE PLANE OF IMMANENCE
What if she rolled her eyes
right out of her head
and your response was,
“God that’s sexy!”
Now you can add to the universe
ankles not shoulder holstered
but slightly swollen and tight.
Best waddle while able,
estrogen soliloquies wan each.
Taking to the lawns of Elsinore
the grass is still quite wet
and curious as to the knocking pause
that sounded so promising.
Like a door unexpectedly open,
whoosh in the sleep deprived air.
They ate the baby sparrows while
not conversing in sequencing tenses,
the local crows all riotous plotting.
I was forced to censor them,
stood waving colored socks like a mad man.
I could hear them coming, their warning caws,
rushed outside from whatever I was doing.
Two Italian Jack Russells, Guido and Marcello,
assisted barking as if all was in good fun.
Yes, the neighbors question my sanity again.
The Sock Man is in his sorry sentry state,
waves red and yellows until blue in the face.
AN EXPERIMENTALIST MAKES A DASH FOR IT
The simple mathematical
existence of your touch
is not enough.
To sensually exist,
sandwich board clad
between those hard surfaces
may have to bruise.
Colin James has a book of poems, Resisting Probability, available from
Sagging Meniscus Press and a new book of poems forthcoming
from Wondor Editions. He lives in Massachusetts………..direct link to SMP titles