I wake up in a dumpster behind a Slaughter House

I smell the world for what it is

A seductive catalyst of “if”s and “oh”s and tremolos

Polka-dots and ginger cats

Diapers, gun metal, Tupperware

With a hint of spoiled produce and slime.

I yearn for perfumed gardens that reach their zenith in December

With high notes of zinfandel that insert my similes for me;

that capture my “ooh”s and “ahh”s and irrigate my urine for its zinc.

I see the world for what it is;

A wretched rodent that survives out of spite,

claiming beliefs that only hold true in moody metro

bathrooms where suction is God busily converting waste

to potpourri and light bulbs flicker for dramatic

reinforcement.

I yearn for warm shelters on cold nights in Autumn,

Where red transfers its glory from red pedals to leaves,

and that seasonal cinnamon that comes from crushed orange peals

and wood shavings that leave me feeling estranged from my moth-ridden musk.

I feel the world for what it is,

Two-pound porterhouse beef strips raw­­–

(that is not sexual)

A red coolness,

cold enough that you know something is wrong,

Wrong enough, so that eating it is a guilty pleasure,

A pleasure similar to masturbating after a funeral,

or stealing a kiss from a snake charmer,

And a watery wetness over
"Oh no" eyelids that forever brings
a blush to pale fingers.

But deep at its center, (the beef I mean),
there’s a hidden warmth wrapped in itself

that hints at a pulse somewhere. Somewhere.

I yearn for folklores that matrimonially join
the undead with werewolves

in midnight fields of sun-blazoned wheat,
golden corn husks, and petals of brass

with me in the center of the story (and field)
busily trying to create a snow-angel,

causing onlookers to say, “What an odd fellow flapping

his arms like a vulture in heat warding off hungry eyes.”

I would be the world’s greatest gastrophile
to taste the world’s true colors;

the river reds, the breath of blue,
the spice of yellow,
and the youth in green and pink (but not together).

But my palate is gray

and my mind is full on

brown.

I yearn for a Shakespearean ending in which
the young and fair never die,

and I always have a rope of roses
wrapped tightly around a deeply-rooted

banyan tree,

so that when I slip,

I do not

fall.

I hear the world’s slithering silk-lined sestinas
hissing hymns of halcyon cloves,

but between each perfumed line,

acid reveals the forgotten mantra,

“No that is not what I mean. That is not what I mean at all.”

I yearn for silence to echo my sentiments.

After Dinner, I Look Up At the Stars Longing For

Did my face please you, Brie
and leave a strong impression?

Were my features not grand in scale,
and did you not find warmth in my expression?

Was I too cold and sullen?
Was my Cain’s curse exposed?

Were you taken aback from my tiny ears
and my nipple lobes?

Did you think of me
 as I so fondly thought of you?

And if so, then why did you not tear my lips
and with yours, suckle me dry of blue?

I love you Brie, I know I do;
In fact I’m almost sure.

I hope your teeth never dull,
And your memory remains blanketed in furs.