Know Thyself

I wish that my speech was always
puppies and rainbows and butterfly kisses
in the morning with the scent of rain
in the air and on your skin.

The passion that burns and blinds
really isn't heat and radiant energy
as you suppose
Light and warmth and comfort.

Rather it is a coldness that burns you
hard and desolate and vast
it fogs every vision of hopefulness
and causes those close to tremble
and shake and gradually become numb

and my speech, when you ask me what I'm thinking
is like that awkward time between the gunshot
and the dinner table when your steak appears
brilliantly succulent.
It is carnage and blood and entrails
falling to the ground as skin is violently,
methodically separated from flesh.

So, I know you almost always regret asking
that question who's answer is never about
puppies
or rainbows
or butterfly kisses.

Comfort Food

I'm searching for the Ketchup bottle
on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
The bulb has burned out and last night's chicken
is lolling about in a most immodest way.

the inefficiency of the search is most
likely going to make me angry
as I stoop and stretch my aching back
and crane neck just like the giraffe
behind it's fence at the zoo reaching
for that bit of ice cream from a four year old.

I push the eggs from side to side
and shove the Shiraz that gurggles half empty,
under the tortillas I spy the cheese
that's not really cheese (only in America)

Then I heave a sigh and think
What am I looking for?
Lifting my bent back to be verticle
once again feeling the burst of cool air
on my brow furrowed from frustration

I spy a spot of red
silky and thick sitting
pretty as you please on the top shelf
behind the milk
smiling and winking at me

How they all must laugh
and ridicule my frustrations
when I shut the door
and they sit in the dark
waiting again for light to come on.