Life Is For Us To Keep

Laying on a smooth surface of

my brain is a place, where no

activity has ever been recorded by an electrode,

but when I sit at Denny’s

for a long period of time

sipping my bottomless cup,

glancing up from my scribbles

to consider a cream pie,

I haven’t tasted since I was

twelve,

a temple pulse is visible from

three uniform distance tables away.

The wait staff has at times asked about

my health, eyeing my bubbling,

subterraneous eye or sir,

maybe I can get you a 7up?

I barely acknowledge them,

not because of anger, but

because of pure joy.

I have an image of

drinking Pina Coladas on a Peace Train,

from the 70’s love songs on my

Ipod.  Dismissed by music critics since

they didn’t flaunt drug use or don

glitter mascara.

Sara smile and making it with you,

all laudable goals for an idyllic Saturday afternoon,

outside Denny’s window, in the strip meadow,

between the parking lot and the highway.

    Job Security

Sardinia obviously has primo sardines,

But they do not rise to the level of

smelt from Narragansett Bay.

The skin of a smelt crackles

between your teeth, viscerally

satisfying on a level of a swing.

When I yell at my crew, I get

close enough that their eyes

tear from my breath,

that I let linger, just in case.

The first one to complain

about the stench coming from

the dead slivers between my

teeth is going to get a kiss

and then a good word to

his next head honcho.