It is the Memory Factory

As when liquid metal thuds
on granite or marble. A bump and
a smokey simmer, a wet hot drop.

Or when sunlight finds a crack
in the glass, and shimmers a
bit brighter than in the past.

When tired grasps clump
heavy glass onto bedside
table: surrender's sleep at last.

For every child's cracked smile,
bloodied wrist and knee
crying Dad! for a while.

For the bright partition of clouds.
For jungle air darked blue by the shade
of a billion teeming canopies.

Or the best part,
of kissers' first kiss
and first kisser's first.

Better still, lips plumped
puckered and pursed-
a perfect thirst to quench.

Of old laughter,
the playground of a child's mind
and decade designated memorabilia.

There it is

just dont

There’s an Applebee’s across the way
and my grandpa always told me never go there
its full of creeps and wives and spitting children
there’s grime on the walls and grudge in their hearts
its a terrible place with decent bacon, he said.
of course i went there,
of course i did because he told me not to.
and when i came out, there was blood on my hands
and on my shirt, what was left of it.
and so i took a picture of myself,
looking like a newborn baby - all bloodied -
so that when i told my children never to go there,
they’d fuckin’ listen.