words of a people aligned in their perfect order
I am a man of chronic conditions
and if you bless me I’ll say thanks
but that’s all
no one renders the image well
and while the coffee is hot
the outside is almost hotter
and I eat a pinkish apple
drink bottled water
and stare at your walls
sugarless scenarios
contemplating my next tattoo
I am a spiritual guide
wearing a gun and a leatherman
ready for anything
I’m ready for you
– Hoc Scripsi
a short, bad poem
I look back through my notebook
and find no poetry.
apples, pears
peaches, penumbras, oranges
mangoes
pomegranates
fruits of the grove stand at
the local grocer.
I find bananas in several local cafes.
in dream I am at this
fruit supermarket;
counting the aisles and cashiers,
wearing pajamas
and blue memory foam slippers.
unselfconscious of naked shoppers
who fail to wear fig leaves
hiding their shame
the platitudes of willful resemblance 