Friday, September 7, 2012

Italics are the crab talking (I think).

We’re out of control, and cocktail sauce

Destined to boil, that crab (I imagine)
sees me, seeing it. You make a bitter
familiar, tied to the harsh schedule in
your prison. Both of us will be better
come dinnertime. I’m not hungry. My pain

won’t be mellowed by hot buttered spider.
It’s my wrist—plus all this lack of control.
I’m too nervous to wield the shell cracker.
I wish you’d climb out of there and side-stroll
out the door, through town and to the ocean.

We’re underwater. We just gotta roll—
even if it’s California. The banks
closed on the seabed, but I’ve got my whole
life ahead of me. So what? I got tanked.
Too late? Too early? Here is here is here

is here is where I am with claws and shanks.
Adapt. Bubble. Crawl—and then an arm yanks.


  1. wow. "Adapt" as a command. The inner conversational in these waking poems is a subtheme? And here, as eaten, does the speaker become what he eats?