czvasser Fried Chicken

The Hitman in the Hallway

united-in-diversity-logoSiamese crocodile left breast
rises like an afterlife
and falls taking buckets of time.

Eye-beams through the keyhole
Gotham on the ground calling for super heroes
to repair the damages of democracy.

Breath huddles inside brown paper bags
until the count reaches someone missing
then the ready or not begins.

The bedroom turns anticlockwise
to match
the crystal knob’s protection.

Lotioned hand holds spoons of demise
and projectiles of painful alternatives.

Cut umbilicals leave pools of aftermath
quicksand that becomes acne on the face of god.

Unintended thoughts told frantically
to curved lovers
are braided into hangman’s rope
leaving petechial hemorrhage.

The boogeyman here now
has greater weight here after
prayers, spells and talismans
imperfect protection
against the hitman in the hallway.

czvasser Fried Chicken

A Meal Unfinished

Leave the glass
There is an impression
Her lips left
And a ticklish swallow of escapees.

Leave the plate
Her vegetables are
Always after 9
Her fork tines on the rim
Her knife under it
She steals silver spoons.

Yes, leave it
She may come back
After she has danced a bit
After powder in her nose
She may need to sit
A whirlwind to begin
A dervish in the end

Coffee and desert
Why
Yes
She likes a little sweet
And new meat
Sorbet a particular treat
Foreplay
The waiter brings the tray
A new meal
kisses to steal
Numbers exchanged
In a bathroom hallway.

Leave the fork
There is a morsel more
Needs to be impaled
A meal unfinished
Could become first
Course to love or less.

czvasser Fried Chicken

The Awkward Window

In the summer when your curtains
play with the wind
my eyes turn
to your open window.
I linger
and tumble down
until
I am thoughts of things
that were and were not.

In the fall when colors blare
signaling a coming or a going
I gather and I do not
I pass your window
there is a sense of harvest
a time of cornucopia
a feeling the grain bins
of the spirit will be filled
the time of growing has yielded
to maturation.

Winter comes and freezes on your window
I am more huddled now
your drapes not animate
your window will not look at me.

Then there is spring
with its pastels of inconsistencies
I hold my longing as I do my breath.

I am outside the seasons.
There is no face that waits
no heart upon the curtains
why look at that awkward window
except I might see you there.