The Next Feeding

The immediate concern
of every living being
is the next feeding,
the next nourishment.

Some feed only
on food,
others on love
and affection,
and others still
on bitter memories
and bile.

I drink in sound,
season them with images,
but ultimately feast
upon ideas,
sometimes slowly and precisely
as a gourmand,
sometimes ravenously, without care
like a glutton.

This is the immediate,
unrelenting motif
of this life:

feeding our hunger
by righteousness
or anger
or piety
or satiety.

Nothing exists
without some kind of
food.

Even in those prized
golden moments
of orgasmic afterglow,
when my most intimate desires
has been sated,
sweat trickling
down the side of my face,
my heart slowing
down to reverie pace,

I catch myself
thinking
what’s the next thing
I get to eat.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.org - poetic fun awaits ye!]

It Never Completely Leaves

Shame leads
to the ache,

then the fix,

the high,

and the crash,

reuniting me

with the shame,

on an endless loop

to the grave.

[Written in #SoupySales format - 25 words or less.]

The Wizard’s Collection

The wizard gave me

the keys to the cabinet

to retrieve a book of spells

and poetic incantations

to further impress

the wide-eyed coeds,

the ones with

smooth, unknowing skin,

gaping, glistening lips,

and snugfuzzy sweaters.

I was his henchman,

a graduate student hunchback

with raging nostrils

who did his bidding,

his dirty work,

all for a letter of reference

and the possibility

of mopping up some of his

nubile, feminine spillover,

so I could secretly

wring out the contents

into a highball glass

to savor

in moments

of lonely solitude.

Why did he trust me?

He knew I’d look

in the cabinet marked

“Unconfirmed Research Evidence.”

Unlocking the cabinet,

I saw dozens

of unlabeled

5-inch plastic

margarine tubs.

I took one,

peered in

and saw

a small thatch

of hair,

brown, curly and dry.

I opened another

which held

a flatter, straggly thicket

of lighter hair.

One after another,

I opened and found

variations on a theme:

honeyblonde

dustyrustyred

cafebrown,

saddleblack,

each one a small handful

of slightly musky,

tight, pubic curls.

I realized

this wasn’t a collection

of data, but rather

his trophy collection.

I closed the cabinet,

retrieved the book

I was sent for,

and returned to the seminar,

where I looked at

the wizard

and his disciples

with completely new eyes.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where even miscreants like me can find a warm and friendly hello.]

My Six-Word Apologetic

It’s easier to believe
if you've made
art
and you don’t know
from where it came.

Who is this
strange but familiar visitor
guiding the hand,
turning the head,
pricking your ear?

After the blur
of the flow
is quieted,
behold
this thing
that didn't exist
until you brought it
into existence.

You will love this thing,
be captivated by this thing,
and fight for this thing.

It’s easier for me to believe
that it came from
somewhere else,
than to believe
it grew from
my subconscious mess
to a new consciousness,

and hence,
my six word apologetic:

God creates
and so
must I.

Do Not Let Me Sleep Until I Awaken On My Own

Do not let me sleep
until I awaken
on my own.

When I arise
naturally,
during the trip back
from unconsciousness,
I instinctively
reassemble dreams,
reconfiguring,
recontextualizing,
reinterpreting
and I usually detest
what I find:

walking down
squishy darkened halls
over the corpses of
mutilated snakes,
over blood and muscle
and sinew
and I cannot
see the end,

or embraced by
faceless women
whose madness manifests
only out of the corner
of my eye
as they take me
to their bounteous bosoms
and I nuzzle unreservedly
until I hear
the scrape of their
silver razor teeth,

and then I am lost
in a miasma,
going down on
anonymous placeholders
who I thought
only existed
on the periphery
of my consciousness

and I’m trapped
in this miserable cell,
but finally I am saved
not by the bell,
by the beep,
of an electronic
screech screech screech
from the $7 alarm clock.

Do not let me sleep
until I awaken
on my own.

I’d rather be
groggy and sleep-deprived
than rested
and disturbed.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com -come along and dream a little dream with me.]