A stemless blueberry
Eyes the slope of the bowl
Dodges the hurried spoon
A tidal flow of milk
Frustrates his attempts
Catching a wave
He rides its curl
Rolls onto the tabletop
Milky fingers clutch at it
A stalking spoon
Flips it into the air
A moment of freedom
The warmth of a dog’s tongue
An utterly Useless Tale
On a big round oak table in a living room, a vase, in its small crack, lived two house ants. They were sitting outside, considering a box of matches on the tabletop.
“if the box was empty, I’m sure I could push an inch or two the first and said. “Yeah,” the other snorted.
A man came into the room, took a matchstick out of the box, and put it back on the table, this time by its edge, and walked out.
The first ant giggled and said, “If we both push the box, it will fall on
the floor, no one will know how it ended there.”
They traversed the vast expanse of the table, pushed the box off the table, hurried back into their crack, and laughed heartily.
They had been frightened
people usually kill house ants at first
sight. The man came back, saw the box on the floor, shook his head, picked it up, and placed it back on the table. Our ants were in stitches
They were tempted to push the box on the floor again
but gave it up, the risk someone could come in with a duster
was too great
Back at their crack, they went to sleep
as waterfalls tear* down my sheer cliffs –
sculpted by time’s relentless tide
defying the laws of nature
my age undefined; hidden
towering over my world –
a beacon for lost souls
enduring …
an impressive beauty
unapologetic
every angle precise
the lack of erosion
an enigma
as defiant as youth
the island suspended above the clouds
where rare species flourish
unattended by the hand of mankind
ageless banquettes of emotions
served on the tabletop
while impertinent shadows are teased out by
soft slanting sunlight
waterfalls of tears
wouldn’t erode
my façade
the command for respect reticent—
an enduring beauty
in suspension …
Did you see how that cookie crumbled,
and then tumbled, and tumbled, and tumbled,
from the tabletop down to the floor,
and then tumbled and tumbled some more,
and did you hear the "Oh no!" that she fearfully mumbled?
I see a legion
Of paper people
Marching across the tabletop
Hysterically yelling
About their war
On parchment rights
Etched on their fibered faces
Were faithful ideas
Expressed in characters
And behind the paper army
Stood its commander
Who held nothing but a pen
-
Each night she left him bleary -
his mind foaming in a glass
of Guiness.
Disappointments wore her life thin,
nuptials picked to a fugue and dinge,
by his thick-tongued spiel.
“I can change him.”
Nothing changed.
Long she withered and waned.
Friends doled out sympathy
like spreadable butter,
yet her bread was dry.
Long she withered.
Daily she wiped
a vinyl calico tabletop
wet with spilled beer
and self-pity.
She got a second job.
Music came out of my fingers
made me dance all over the wall
My parents were askance
For I was a newborn from a small town
I was tapping my fingers on my highchair tray at one
Loving the feeling of playing my own trombone or drum
I was a musician, so they called me Table Top Joe
It was not even my name, but that’s how I evolved
Kindergarten teacher was Miss Alyson, who was pretty and quick
She let my fingers play the piano as a reward if I did my work
Work in kindergarten? That is crazy I told myself. And it was.
Every day at school was a waste of time.
How did it get me closer to fame?
Fortune?
My destiny?
I played the game as long as I could
Then I ran away to become the real me.
A musician who drums on everything he can reach.
Tabletop Joe!
Butter the toast, butter knife, bread.
blue plate, no sunlight, short-sighted blue night,
electric rings of silence.
Breakfast is slow,
not that hungry but there is honey
and I am lonesome in a tired body.
Soon, hands will press the tabletop,
will rise up, push up to lace-up walking shoes,
enter the coming light
that unsteady, unready light
with its slippery yo-yo gleams,
enter it all; the concrete hills,
the leaf and branch, the cast-up legs
of the still twitching,
the buoyant tumbling of the living,
the pumped-up throats
of the starry-eyed singers,
enter it fully, growing less unlikely,
enter myself as an unrepentant prodigal son
returning home.
roaming tabletop
persian’s taste for dainty things
the french-pressed coffee
soft black fur prowling tea cups
be careful kitty, it’s hot
I was a simple picture of a person,
just a gulp of a guy.
She was not my first girl; she was my second.
It was a Dairy Queen date,
banana milkshakes,
me tanking-up on her foggy eyes,
imagining her naked muggy
female parts.
Then that she abruptly
slammed her wet wriggling mind
down on to the plastic tabletop.
A floppy thing it was, with no kapok
or bitty bones.
Her fishiness edged closer to me
as if wanting to be fed. I fled.
That night I dreamed of her bubbly wet kisses
flying like manta rays
above the rooftops of our watery town
seeking out soggy young men
to puddle with.
A mountain does not loiter
Like an empty paper cup upon a tabletop.
A mountain is a weighty mass,
Rooted through the topsoil
Of the surrounding lowlands
And anchored to the earth’s solid crust
Which floats upon a fluid, molten mantel.
And deep at the core of it all
Is a slowly spinning ball of solid metal,
The motion of which generates
An electro-magnetic field
That radiates outward into space
Creating a protective force
That shields the planet
And all the creatures
That dwell upon the mountain.
I refuse to cease writing these words
though all my bones have been broken
splintered and shattered
like puzzle pieces
scattered on a tabletop
their pointy ends piercing
every muscle each time I move
even an iota
I persist as I always do
despite the pain
perhaps because of it
to prove a point
taping popsicle sticks to my fingers
so they stay straight as I type
“Obstinate, stubborn”
my mother used to say
when I dared to disagree
or stand up for myself
Her insults like a high pitched
whistle blown inches from my ear
echoing in my malleable young mind
a cavern creating stalagmites
layer upon layer
with the constant drip-drip of disdain
sharp and spiky that would impale me
over the years yet to come
Allegro
Crystal decanter, wine in a glass.
Tabletop woodwinds court candlestick brass.
Fine sterling service, stems in a vase.
High-tone enamel meets low double bass.
Pale yellow roses, peaches and grapes.
Clarinet colors tint saxophone shapes.
Citrus in concert, lemon and lime.
Echoes of summer in three-quarter time.
Adagio
There are brazen implications
In these muted, pulsing horns.
The strings are thick and creamy.
The bass line’s strewn with thorns.
Scherzo
Nail-tap percussion, tremolo drill.
Twelve o’clock whistle sounds cranky and shrill.
Shipping yard sunlight, loading dock shade.
Forklift holds pallet in mid-serenade.
Mustard-stained napkin, Styrofoam cup.
Strains of a power saw being tuned up,
Baritone belt sander wailing away.
White glove allegro turned grease monkey gray.
Rondo
Without darkness, there could be no light.
The sun would rise unnoticed.
Without silence, there could be no song
From either bird or locust.
Without winter, there could be no spring.
No flowers for your lover.
Without music, there could be no art.
They flatter one another.
Spring rain was forecast, and it came.
It ran out of the sky,
it felt like millions of sloppy puppy kisses
a warm wetness just so happy to lick the earth
and the bald spot on the top of my head -
happy to run down
under my collar,
down my back,
just so happy
to trickle about
until
I have to run into the store
thinking to buy an umbrella,
but end up
just buying a bunch of tall purple Gladioli,
because you love them,
and you are just so happy
to watch their fairy-tale big-hat blooms
fill up with water
and then bend their giraffe necks
to pour the water out
as dozens of Gladioli mulled droplets
running about on the tabletop,
all of them just so happy
to be playing with your glad fingers.
I was a simple picture of a person,
just a gulp of a guy.
She was not my first girl; she was the second.
It was a Dairy Queen date,
banana milkshakes, me tanking-up on her foggy
eyes,
imagining her naked foggy
female body parts.
It was then that she abruptly
slammed her wet wriggling mind
down on to the plastic tabletop.
A floppy mind it was, with no brains
and no bones.
Her fishy mind edged closer to me
as if wanting to be fed. I fled.
That night I dreamed of her bubbly wet kisses
flying like manta rays
above the rooftops of our town
seeking out foggy young men
to puddle with.
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