.
                                 Meat
                           Meatball Me
                         Meatball Meat
                       Meat b all   M eat
                         Meatball Meat
                         ball   Meatball
                         Meatball Meat
                         b a ll Meatball
                         Meatball Meat
                         ball   Meatball
                         Meatball Meat
                         ba l l Meatball
                         Meatball Meat
                         ball   Meatball
                Meatball             Meatball
            Meatball Me       Eat ball Meat
           Meatball Meat   ball Meatball M
            Meatball Me       Meatball Meat
                Meatball             Meatball

What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my *******?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little ***** to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can **** in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
**** her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll ****** you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-** the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the *******
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe ****.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking *****
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to ****?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.

Meatball meatball down the hill
it must be having quite a thrill.
Stain the grass, paint it red
I hope you roll up in my bread.

If the bread accepts you so
I'll shoo away that nasty crow.
Down in the river, a plate I found
let me wipe it on the ground.

Imagine now, what you just read
if you haven't already fled.
For if I were to take a bite
my face would show, it's not right.

Let me grab that piece of cheese
from the mouse, I said, "Please?"
In the end, and to end it all
that last bite, was my downfall.

The birth of our sun wrote megalithic,
two-word bursts of observable heat to life.

It pounded the density of a billion
squealing animals and thought itself
star—a pencil

being lifted by an oven-mitted hand
somehow deft, fortune-telling
witch.

sun—which will, in time,
bow out to a goodnight city
where every light is eaten

by dark-spelled window—no reflection
of flame,
no kiss of magnet—no

just cold death to
the bones—a molded meatball
dancing in a spiral once believed

to be beautiful.

To another day
passing like the parched foliage
dangling from the roofs in
the ***** Bronx

left of the ferry,
right is the skyline
doubled three times,
cloaked in solar panel
glass and shimmering
against the smoggy array of light
that
will
quit—
in due time.

Daddy, sweet
East River father,
where is the little
meatball you had grounded
up for eyes.
For a Roman nose
and Mafian stubble
when your Sicilian tongue
was clipped at age five.

For English-Only stamped on the roof
of your waste factory
of a mouth.

For the neo-tongue that
was bred liked
strong As
and
young ****;
And copious liquor upon
the grounds of your hiking
trips.

Mutation
       of
vile majesty.
Cannibalism of the **—

Buttons budding
for *******.

I saw your phantasm
figure, soiled in
dark tan, curve in
my lens.
Swallow the hazel
like a viscous sauce,
sweet, fresh.
A fuckable baby—
of five. You clipped
my tongue with now
cloying giggles and in the bunk bed,
red and ***,
like a locket, limbs

dangling out the sides, fleeing in
a fountainhead of
DO NOT.
Effaced by an amnesia.

The old man in my skull speaks,
— I was thirty two days ago.

Now the IVs DRIPDRIP,
Chorus with the TICKTICKTICK.
You are the hour,
I am the minute
Hand.
You are slow, I must
go-go-go in compulsive haste.
Run for sixty,
start anew,
encore, solo, imbrued
with the days that twine the middle, framed in
white.
Forget.

The doctor parses the old man like an
obsolete phrase with theatric hands,
-touch-touch-
push,  press.
Then comes the Shakespearean
soliloquy:
—He hasn’t the coverage.

The trigger as a glove of flesh
hits its target, quiets the machine,
puts me to sleep.

What is it that
I must do?
-become the platoon,
an infantry of sun-empired men.
Fight the shrapnel,
the blitzing of
scar tissue.
Become the fireman
with an axe wielded—
Scale the towers like cracks in a mountain.
Die from the smoke or
the spherical flames of the
planes that rode like the hooves
of a horse with bubonic pallor.
Fall like a worker
for stories down until
God, or some sadistic keeper
of this earth, slacks a noose
and reels me in like
a bluefin tuna, prized,

as you
salute. You ‘Nam
prevailer heralding
the lacy harlequins of corporeal
God’s pardon
on
you.

I am in
eternity from
the waist down,
object of the tight, frictiony
satisfaction you
almost indulged in.

To be a daughter, so sonly,
revoked of all features.
Stripped of the places
you liked to touch.

A satisfied appetite is a simply joy

Overlooked and simplified

Like a growing urge, a salivating need

That is entrancing and glorified.



Everlasting for moments we call meals

Forgotten in time, lingering above

But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside

Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again



The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight

And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips

Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center

Halved and topped with mascarpone crème



The man with a skin of caramel glaze

Caressing and savoring

With a fragrance and scent

Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin



In the pursuit of a brief love affair

What oral sensation did my taste buds want?

My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await

Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff



Generous portions and humble pies

Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die


Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté

Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce

A robust aroma and savory appeal

Basil leaves with garlic strips

Olive oil to top the surreal


Hubristic meatball aborigine  

Elysian cuisine or many dreams


Teasing the senses, warming the pit

Of flowing pleasures

And tingling fingertips

Without moral measures

And succulent wines

Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone

Seasoned with Sicilian herbs

And paired with broiled asparagus

Drizzled with lemon juice


And a glass of Merlot

Spices I hardly know



Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows

With love there is pain, passion endured through the names

Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums

Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass


Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami

Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami


Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor

Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin

red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread

devilish rounds of crumbling ***-swirl bread

Smells and wonders, tastes so ...

oh god

Divine and sublime.

Struggling to swallow the strong spicy bourbon,
Staining his breath, like a meatball
Splattered onto a white t shirt.
He wondered, the most dear, delightful
Wonders. His minds roof slowly collapsing
Like the spine of a paraplegic.
He dreamed of the ways he could
Revolutionize the world. Desperate for
A sincere societal change; not only in
Norms, but in culture, politics, religion;
It all mattered, it all must change.
His heart struggled, stuck inside the
Pain-staking world he had grown to
Hate. "It mustn't stay the same",
He said. But, what did he know.
Things don't just change. Things don't
Just get better. People must die.
Innocent people. Normal people.
Non-killing people, they must die.
But he continued to think.
He continued to search, deep in his soul.
People questioned his sanity: "**** lunatic!"
They would say. They. A word he hated.
Perhaps that was it. They!
He realized what he must do in order
To save all of humanity.
He sat down and he wrote. And wrote.
And wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
And wrote. And it was good.
His plan was almost complete. One more step.
Society would forever be changed.
Everyone would love. Everyone would eat.
There would be no bombs. No hate.
The world was about to forever change;
He hoped for the very best.
So he went to his room. It was light.
He reached in the drawer and felt metal.
Pulling out the key to societies happiness.
He, himself became happy. He looked around,
Then...
Bam!

It's time again it's that Onomatopoeia
Is it a verse is it fire a spicy meatball mama Mia!
Mario warped in those pipes couldn't see ya
Wouldn't wanna be ya look at my sneaker
Nike do it like me I ****** what I want I do t fear ya
Taking it all like I was on my billy and Mandy grim reaper

red hands
raw meat
up to my elbows
in hamburger

chunks of bread
spices, eggs
just doing
my job

sculpting each
meatball
carefully
in my hands

rubber gloves
metal tools

surgery
why
them and
not me

(blood, gore
shrapnel and death
suffering, pain
alcohol and tears)

they were just
doing their job
i'm just
doing mine

(the voice in my head
says i'm not enough
my glove breaks at
the seam around my ring)

another day
in paradise
cold fingers
meat on hands

My cat,
Meatball,
tried to ****
my Venus Flytrap
and he claims that
he was just trying to
protect me
but I think it's because
he's a little ****.

Still,
I find it
tremendously
difficult
to stay in a bad mood when
both of my cats decide
to lay on my chest and
purr away
all of my frustrations
and anxieties about the world

Two clowns with tremendous feet
stacked upon each other
one a miniature of the other

these clowns have diminutive heads
plump bodies
pieced together

monstrous feet out sizing their legs
pigeon-toed outwards
with a big toe the size of a meatball

both have screaming faces
eyes set atop their heads
without eyebrows- but it's not unnatural

ether floats off the larger clown on the bottom
radiating from the knee and the torso sides
and shoulders

the larger built like a body builder
with massive shoulders
and a v-torso

the diminutive clown has massive ears and
skinny arms facing outwards with hooked fists
on rollerskates

the anger spewing from the larger lower clown
is parodied on the upper's face
they are both men

both squat, human
made of circles
nothing is a straight line in their make-up

niether naked
nor clothed
it doesn't matter

these clowns represent nothing
they simply are; they are in the world
but where, I can not say.

My sister – camping on the coast
Muttering over macaroni
Fixing salad
Talking to a seagull

“George” mews like a cat
awaiting dinner
Waddling web-foot along the stony cliff
To him – life is a handout
against the backdrop of the setting sun
Garlic bread, spaghetti, chocolate chip cookie –

My sister adopts things
What was ever wild after?
Even this “Master of the Wind”
eats Italian tonight!

Till the “Alpha Bird”
younger stronger
spots the eye of orange on plate of white –
Whirls in on protest and demand
George responds in kind
Intruder seizes a meatball
George squawks and lunges
his last...
_

The sunset on the Maine coast tonight
enthroned in vaporous haze
Imbued with fragrance-- ocean rose
The sky-- delicate
mountain laurel pink
bleeding into purple
where the tallest spires of spruce
have stabbed upward
From the coastline's rock
comes qweedling of the robins
calls of sea birds in the peaceful distance....
__

        ….George struggles in Alpha's grip
on windpipe
Meal forgotten
as nature serves its worst
His neck arched back
Wings fluttering desperate
in his last display
a spray of feathers
Strength will take this day
Plunge it into faint squawks
George dissolves limp in quivers

as Alpha--
weightless victor
lifts away

Suzy cries out
despair at loss of little friend
        “I can't! I can't!

I rush out to hold  
his last limp sigh

...tossing his gray and white into another sky

I talked with my parents this morning (they’re in a time zone that’s 6 hours ahead). I’ll be off, back to school, before they get back. They sound very tired, certainly tireder than they did a month ago.

They’re working with “Doctors Without Borders” somewhere in Poland. We have a fiction between us, that they haven’t been in a war zone for the last couple of months, spending 16 (18?) hours a day, in ineffable, meatball surgery - sewing pieces of people back together.

Although our conversation topics are no more important than soap bubbles, they evoke a kaleidoscope of emotions (in me), our mutual deceptions as fragile as eggshells.

In the words of Taylor Swift
a love story began.
First, he stared at me across the room.
Second, he flirted with me.
Third, we had a casual conversation.
Fourth, he pushed a meatball across the plate to me.
Fifth, he asked me to marry him.
Sixth, he's not real...
My love life....

If they weren’t in the Polo grounds, the drive was a home run..
Don Liddle served a meatball and Wertz swung and thought it gone.
But Willie Mays thought otherwise and raced towards the wall.
Improbably, impossibly, he caught Vic Wertz’s ball.
He turned to throw; his cap flew off, as Doby raced for third.
When Grisson relieved Liddle, Liddle quipped:” I got my man.”
That the Indians were dispirited you well can understand.
That inning turned the series as Cleveland didn’t score.
The Giants won that game in ten and swept the Tribe in four.
Of all who played the game that day, a precious few remain.
The man who made “The Catch” still lives; forever will his fame.

it's six am and we are cuddled on a mostly deflated air mattress
the air is cold and you smell like a mix of sleep sweat and alcohol
i don't mind it
you whisper to me in your rumbly voice
stories of steve
walking swordfish
chicken heart
you laugh when i tell you about the meatball i stole

when i imagine you now i don't see your face
i feel your untouchable safety and
wish you into tangibility
although dimensions separate us
i can't do anything but tell myself
you're right around the corner
in order to carry on

You are said to be precious.
Precious mind,
I manged to see by myself.
Beauty that struck so Hard
To leave one unconscious.

The one that tells a story,
A story you can never find in the shelfs
The girl is so Beautiful
Beauty strong enough,
To change egypt's pyramid
Into a prism.

Powerful enough to make a guy
Cry who spent ages in prison.
The beauty that can take you
From a jungle to an open space.
The one when lost,
Can never be traced.

The one to put the meatball
Within your ribcage.
Straight into the Rabbit race.

The one you gaze upon,
And see your whole world.
I'm a man, and she's better than
Just a girl.
She's a woman, and she's beautiful

she always found it easy to sleep on the train
the low vibration of the motor sent a  shiver down her spine reminiscent of the one she got when her mother held her and whispered softly,
"it was just a sad dream, my sweetheart"
she wishes her nine-to-five didn't take up so much time
time she could have spent with her mother before stage five
she sleeps with the notion that maybe when she wakes up from her slumber, she will finally wake up from her
sad dream

he feels remorse for the fact that he can't sit in the normal train seats
but he enjoys the solitude
the passengers' probing judgement cannot penetrate through his
thick skin
he'd rather ride alone than next to one of the classmates that bullied him throughout high school
"fatty" "meatball" "fatso"
he hopes that they all get hit by public transportation
preferably public transportation that he's riding
sitting alone

the anxiety is suffocating him and
no one can see
and no one can help
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
there's so much he hasn't done
there's so much he has to do
there's so much existing
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
every term paper is shoved down his esophagus
every reading
every subway ride spent doing nothing
is going to **** him
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die

her eyebrows make her look angry
the arch is too high, she notices every morning
her cheekbones are too severe
she notices
her hair is always pulled back into a tight ponytail
every hair scraped back, flat to the scalp
she notices
but it's a choice
she has to demand things of people
and no one will take her seriously is she looks inviting
she notices
her boss stares at her *** for three and a half seconds whenever she bends over
she notices
her co-worker resents her because she got engaged and promoted in the same year
she notices

he doesn't understand
he came to this country hoping for so much more
but he doesn't understand
how anything works
how anyone functions
he doesn't understand
he takes the same train every morning because he's remembers it
but he doesn't understand it
he misses home, his real home
but this is better for him
isn't it?

she always sits in the window seat of the four-chaired section
whenever she doesn't, she is forced to stare at the ground
or make awkward eye contact with the grey faces
she likes the window seat
she stares blankly through the landscape surrounding the train
and she thinks
about how her nostalgia deepens her melancholy
about how everyone has tired of her humour and wit
about how the only thing she has is a shred of hope that someday she can make her mother proud
and she thinks
she thinks about everyone surrounding her on the train
what their stories are
she wonders if she'll ever know
and then she sleeps

So the journey postponed
By the method of twine.
Twas decided they’d book on the telephone line.

A jungle safari with gin and Campari.
And lashings of kippers on toast.
Despite the location of bison migration
There was still time to fish by the coast.

At the end of the plodding in boots made from wadding.
They both had a wonderful time.
They couldn’t deplete all
The stocks of the meatball
From bellies of African swine.

There’s no moral this time.
As their trip was just fine.
Said the owl to the pussycat’s purrs.

Their next time in Turkey
Was rather more murky.
On their quest for some jewellery and furs.

Stepping out of me
ME encounters me
He doesn’t have my grace
Tells me on the face
It’s ME
Inside of you
That lends you voice
Otherwise you dumb doll
Is just a meatball
A zombie without ME
Eyes that don’t see
Ears that don’t hear
Live blind without a mind
Beneath skin bones 206
Always in a fix
Till breathes this ME
In you
Poetry

When he steps in
I see his reflection
On the screen!

Not sure where the family
behind us is from
but they are reciting scripture
in the mess hall cafeteria.
This lingon berry soda is almost finished and my patience is almost finish and I don’t know if I can handle what lies ahead of me and my satire stature.
It’s like I forgot how to write;
forgot how to type;
forgot how to spell and tell if I was right. It’s like I’m a meatball
floating off the plate
about to plummet
on the cold, hard ground.