Bad Fight, Bad Storm
there is a storm, gathering its skirt
and stepping over puddles
it is ready to hobble away
with a huff and a puff and a blow
your house of cards down
he is too funny for his own good
somehow, a friend laughed himself
to death
it was written on the toe tag
it was written on the coroner’s report,
so it must be true
lightning always strikes
in the same place twice, for him
it is kung fu fighting, fast
as blackbelt clouds-
his shoulders are worn down hills
rounded from gloomy karate chops,
he is the cinderblock
he is much less related to Benjamin
Franklin than he ever imagined,
this was his invention
there is a no kite-string, for him
there is no brilliant arc
and no flash, there is no lightbulb
going off in the dark
only the punchline of a joke
dressed up as a martial arts attack,
only a bad story teller
only himself,
placing all seven cards face down,
and going out for a smoke in the rain
Paper Shredder
grinding, like teeth
in the night
worse,
like dry coffee beans
like broken bearings
like a disposal drain
where your whispers
tear apart
where your bills
are past due
one more month
where credit cards
go
when someone
has stolen
the only part of you
that mattered
and old pictures
go
when someone
has stolen
the only part of you
that matters still
until
you are stuck
with stop lights
for winking eyes
and a jaw,
all jammed up
