Flannel Likes Your Grandma

 

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Comforters are insecure

Blankets hide in between secrets

Muffling the truth of the matter

Pillows make lewd suggestions

To any side of the head

That happens to take an interest

Sheets are cold at first

Until they warm up to you

King, Queen, Full, and Twin

Are an incestuous family

Linen loses it around bedtime

Bedspreads are nice at night

A ruckus in the morning

Throws miss the spot

Quilts always get confused

About life’s bits and pieces

Coverlets and Duvets argue

Endlessly about standing alone

Memory Foam never forgets

a shapely ass and a good boob job

Thread Counts weave tall tales

Down begins all fluffy and nice

Then becomes one big prick

Flannel likes your grandma

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Sacred Clothing

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Suspenders are oblivious

To their importance

They hold shit up

Panties can only be pink once

Bras are too self-involved

Gloves never lay a hand on anything

Belts are for the buttless

Tightening up when uncomfortable

Loosening up after a few drinks

Jock Straps think too much

About Athletic Support

Jeans are multitaskers

With concentration problems

Especially if they’re hugging hips

T-Shirts only want to play

When it’s time for bed

Unless they’re a Pocket Tee

Then they have an identity crisis

Nylons can get along with anyone

Until their toes get stiff

Or their conversation skills sag

Zip ups are perverted ass pinchers

Buttons get too attached

Scarves are spiritual masters

Of Body and Soul, Yin and Yang

Unless they are 100% wool

Jackets are pretenders

to the throne of Coats

Turtlenecks are creepy

Pajamas play hooky

Drink Spanish Coffee

Lay around watching soaps

Ponchos live precariously

If they are fringed

They might be seen at night

But quickly disappear in the day

A blouse is a blouse is a blouse

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The Floor Is So Cold Tonight

 

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The floor is so cold tonight

The dust scurries, moves, hides

My palm takes the pulse of linoleum

Wax, dirt, desire, finish,  surface,  sealer

Remnants of shine, all but a bug skeleton speck

We were the warmth, the life, struggle, the stumble

Laying here, cold floor moved into heat, a ghost sheen

I turn my palm upwards, as if to control something gone

Wasn’t the air the heaviest that night? It pressed us down

What we left is now unlocked—floorless space, — abandoned

 

The floor is so cold tonight

As if it has misplaced the words

My spine. I cannot lay flat upon you

Your plastic skin has been manufactured

Pain was not real, that night, or any other night

Only the imprints of our bodies, evaporating quickly

Lost all signs, signifiers, meaning and meat, bone and skin

We are a candy wrapper skinned sweet, scent of survival absurd

We could not stay here, it isn’t ours, it belongs to the larger rooms

Tile that mingles, inner juices hold the universe at bay, floor is spinning

 

The floor is so cold tonight

My feet are getting dirtier, dirtier

We cleaned together, clung, to our heavyness

I am a crumpled paper, phone number named me

Our bodies—gravity, whirled—beneath the skin, floor

Sunk, muscle—pushed up, propping my arm upon you

We came here for the moments, motions, our starving plans

Pieces of tile, adhered, adorned, measured, while yet becoming

Worlds are found in rooms, they are claws scratching the flooring

We remember the feeling of the room, the air, our bodies, the cool, cool, cool, cool

Bill-Brandt

The Rope (Portrait #3)

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The snow is blamed, it always is, as mad as you get at it, as mad as it makes me. But, I know, like you do, now, it’s always the rope. The others don’t realize the rope’s properties, as a living thing. They aren’t mad, just frightened. They see me smile and relax. Fear rises then slips from them as I let go of you. Your weight is the weight of all of them, tethered together. Their trust is a grasp and mistakes made within a clasp.

I worry about you. We came this far. I have control and why not? I can’t hold on, or, should I say, I won’t. I mean, These rocks are our lives now, cold, rough. Can’t you see our lives through the others? As if their skeletons were glass and their skin invisible. If you could, you would see my reasoning. I have so much warmth for you, that’s why I let go. Surely, you understand. I tried to tell you before, when I said, “In the middle, I straddle both sides, I’m unsure of the footing.” It’s an attempt at balance. Slipping, You wouldn’t let me, I’m slipping, why would you let me? Let go. 

They teach you the ways of balance and trust, even as you fall. Belief steers people higher upon the mountains, digging caves, stashing bones, earning interest. You, like them, become dependent upon the grasp. Even in these last seconds, I would come with you, down to the foothills Play with you in the rain, rub softness into your heart, wander in a world without holding onto to it tightly, let the water run through our hands, swallow life in one motion, not to nibble it down into to pieces until bones are exposed. My hand burns as the rope slips, what did you expect? I cut the cord. I have to.

It makes me. It speaks to me. The rope is sound, a happy voice, playing games. Your voice, so weak now. I hear two voices. I get confused. Is it them? They can’t fool me. It’s the rope. It will always be the rope, my friend. They are only echoes. I’ve been here so many times and heard. Different kinds of voices, clashing rhythms, tightened microtones, struggling with the climb. I’m sorry. You don’t believe me. Yes, you are right. I can teach them about the snow How tracks get caught in them. How tracks disappear when lingering, clouds scraping precipitation, higher upon perception. But, The rope must speak in its own tongue. I can’t ask you. I can only understand you.

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Casuals Don’t Fool Anyone

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Slippers are for cowards

Slip-ons are for Christmas

Morning hung-over dads

Sandals are for white people

forced into dreadlocks

on their way to burn a man

Dancing out of their money

eating spiced tempeh fries

disguised as Jesus peyote

offered by the naturopath

Indian guru of gluttony

Socks are for holy days

Pray upon the sacred hamper

Perform the rites of Wash Day

Resurrection is in the dryer

Boots are for the blues

Galoshes are for the lonely

Pumps are puking in the

Ladies’ room with panties

named Pink, lost in the midst

of the jumble of mesh

Sneakers run unaware everywhere

Dress shoes are in the closet

Clogs are fakin’ the feet

Into performing lurid acts of

Knee highs, leather, and straps

High Tops are for hook ups

High Heels are for the cranky

Swollen members of the crowd

Floating on twisted ankles

Casuals don’t fool anyone

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