The OM

Twelfth set of longings today.
That’s an awful lot of bagel children
moping around without lox,
nary a lick of cream cheese in sight.
What are they to do?
All they really can do is visualize
the OM,
the didgeridoo spanning the moment
as though it always knew
there would be a bagel cart
at craft services–
once Terry gets off his ass.
All kidding aside, Terry
really does mean well,
he just needs a fire lit
under that comfortable posterior
every now and then.

Tarmac 3

Make up situations and watch them fester in corners where little Billy dumped his dead frog last summer and Jill took that old spoiled yogurt and threw it in disgust and it splattered on her face and got in her eye and she began to cry–not because she had stinging culture in her cornea, but because her dad left the house that night and didn’t come back. It wasn’t his fault, the F-150 behind him was going 50 in a 35 and turned around to look at the girl with her chest touching her neck just long enough to fly out the windshield as he connected with the trunk of a midsize sedan which in turn lost its bearing and hit a light pole, taking out the left side in the snap of a finger.