Friday, July 23, 2010

Rodak's Writings: Featherweight


I should not have responded.
I should have let
the fresh-poured concrete set
without extending a finger
to smear my initials there.
I’ve got no game.
I’m at zero valence.
I’ve been sucked out
and spit into a bucket
like the contents
of a delinquent womb.
I sometimes forget
that life is at best
an attempt to positively value
the warm jewels of wet
soaking into leg hair
then trickling like little amber tongues
between the toes of bare feet:
a perpetual pissing into the wind.
The cat avoiding my gaze
is Feather.
She has a story
xxxx(--and you can see it coming--)
The cynic physician
handing back my empty wallet
with a prescription
for the standard panacea:
Just go out and get yourself a little pussy:
Voilà, Feather.
xxxx(--pause for groans--)
It’s Feather’s world.
I’m just here to fill the bowl.