Sitting in my cardboard box
I watch the world melt in raindrops.
Everything is glowing wet.
The metal cars should crumble to rust,
But there's no room for rust in a changing place.
I see the paper dolls, I think,
I think those paper dolls are all around.
"Touch me here," a voice might beg,
A paper doll might turn to flesh,
And still I sit here, waiting.
Will I melt in rain?
Or am I soggy paper, waiting,
Wondering why I don't rust,
Ignoring the flesh around me?
I tasted sweet lips, soft,
And wet like the rain,
With a fleshly touch, a touch
That drives the rain away.
I will not rust, I ask
Only that you touch me, with
The depth of your eyes, real eyes
That see flesh, not paper, my paper,
Our paper dolls belong on shelves
And we belong to ourselves.
© Copyright 2000 — 2009 Jeremy Likness. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Crime
To my first friend, ever
I have been lucky to drop a handful of copper on a dirty, uneven counter.
The dark skinned man with a dark lock of hair frowns,
Counting the dull ones, counting the ones that shine.
I wait for a pack of generic one hundred filters,
Savoring the stale taste of cheap smoke while
Someone sits on a torn sofa, dropping
Ashes onto a stained carpet, watching
Black and white dots swarm on a fizzing TV set
While spinning the chamber of a loaded .357.
I have been lucky to beg for a handful of paper on a dirty, wooden floor.
The tall, thin man frowns,
Counting the crumpled bills, counting the fresh, flat bills.
I stand by the pump at a convenience store,
Listening to the flow of cheap gasoline while
Someone waits nervously, sweating,
Feeling pressure at their temple, while
A shadow plucks at their wallet, holding
A loaded .357.
I have been lucky to chew on stale chips,
To drink sour water and sit in a wooden chair,
Feeling sorry for myself while
Someone is wading through trash, searching
For a husk of corn or a bone with shreds of meat, clinging
Like life, when suddenly
A flash, a crack, a cry, and crimson
Drains from the wound left by a loaded .357.
I have been lucky to spend all day driving, looking
For tell-tale signs of pay checks, filling
Endless applications, hoping
I'll never be so alone, sitting
On my couch at home, smoking
And loading a hollow .357.
© Copyright 2000 — 2009 Jeremy Likness. All Rights Reserved.
I have been lucky to drop a handful of copper on a dirty, uneven counter.
The dark skinned man with a dark lock of hair frowns,
Counting the dull ones, counting the ones that shine.
I wait for a pack of generic one hundred filters,
Savoring the stale taste of cheap smoke while
Someone sits on a torn sofa, dropping
Ashes onto a stained carpet, watching
Black and white dots swarm on a fizzing TV set
While spinning the chamber of a loaded .357.
I have been lucky to beg for a handful of paper on a dirty, wooden floor.
The tall, thin man frowns,
Counting the crumpled bills, counting the fresh, flat bills.
I stand by the pump at a convenience store,
Listening to the flow of cheap gasoline while
Someone waits nervously, sweating,
Feeling pressure at their temple, while
A shadow plucks at their wallet, holding
A loaded .357.
I have been lucky to chew on stale chips,
To drink sour water and sit in a wooden chair,
Feeling sorry for myself while
Someone is wading through trash, searching
For a husk of corn or a bone with shreds of meat, clinging
Like life, when suddenly
A flash, a crack, a cry, and crimson
Drains from the wound left by a loaded .357.
I have been lucky to spend all day driving, looking
For tell-tale signs of pay checks, filling
Endless applications, hoping
I'll never be so alone, sitting
On my couch at home, smoking
And loading a hollow .357.
© Copyright 2000 — 2009 Jeremy Likness. All Rights Reserved.
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