i hunt flies

                         i hunt flies.

in a dark room i
shine a flashlight a
gainst the wall
the light           it
needs
          the long shadow
of a toothpaste
          the tool in my hand
                        i wait
for                   it.

if                     it is tired
                       it will die easy
its yellow guts explode tiny and
you can scoopit up with
           the swatter.
                       it
                       it
                       it
                       it
                       it is my death

If you need a mothers day sonnet, use this one (specific to mothers of Eleanors only)

Each morning when my wife she does awake

To frantic Billie barks and climbing child,

She puts the hat of mom upon her pate,

And calms the dog and gives our kid a smile.

Each afternoon she picks up Eleanor

From school, and brings a new joy ev’ry day:

Like trips to parks, a car or, something more

Than is expressed in my poor, rote wordplay.

And in the ev’ning, after supper time,

The mother hat, she wears it until sleep

By calming Eleanor with song or rhyme

E’en when I make jokes about poop and peep.

All this to say I envy how she wears

The love and faith in family that she bares.

x

This mountain of grated cheese

I sat here, slowing falling through the parmesano reggiano, like an olive lost in a history of grey tribute bands. At the top of the pile, the cheese felt soft and pillowy, like I was on top of the world and the world was soft, pillowy cheese. Does it matter that this cheese was aged?

   Like does aged cheese transmit the horrors of its times?


( will, 16 years from now ,  cheese transmit this message spray painted on the back of a high school entrance billboard:

"

Build the wall #MAGA

"

but 'Billboard' is not the right word. Maybe 'marquee'? 

Not the right word, but painted with 'right' words, am I right????

Maybe that painter kid ate Mussolini Cheese and was infected with the same strand of hate that has passed through the guts of those Germans and what not.)

Anyway, back to the story about cheese mountains:

The pillows of whiteness envelop me. Sharp and nutty. Tangy. Wielding patio torches.