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,
Won’t You 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: