The Man With the Perfumed Moustache
You wouldn’t know
the moustache was perfumed—
if not for the
up-stretched neck of the woman,
sniffing it,
smiling like briar rose. Nothing of the
unusual happens.
But the man has held across his chest
a vintage ukulele.
So you assume he plays the good
old tunes: I’ve
Been Working on the Railroad,
Camptown Races,
Buffalo
Come Out Tonight,
Amazing Grace,
with different
words. This alignment,
together with the
veracious way the woman
conveys the rose
scent of that moustache, strikes me
as expertly
metrical. It is a copacetic moment. I’m happy,
surprised I’m not
happier...
When You’re Done Touch the Screen (Like a Seer)
The image shows
externals only—
onto
rather than into.
Form assuming
shape according to that which is growing in soul.
The tone invoked
before the screaming starts.
Mauve because of
dark/light mix and superimposition >
What the truck!
I’ll kill myself
and make it look like you did, says the text.
In other words, I
hate my psyche more than I love the kids.
The image shows
a face with chalked-out eyes and
slivered lips.
What the poem is lacking is the
back:
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