Ugliness, a bucketful.
Beauty is art;
ugliness is important.
A showerless Sunday,
greasy hair day.
Only one or two people
at a time, for talking,
lots of talking,
sharing bottles of Jame-oh,
ending up upside-down,
so to speak, pulling, shooting,
then on to talking, all gossip,
a hand in everything,
everybody’s business, mine too:
greasy hair, bad breath, old clothes.
A warm february, the snow melted,
figured it’d return eventually.
along with the yelling of wild horses,
surrounded by eccentricity,
or what the common folk call ‘insanity;’
crazy kids, crazy parents, crazy peeps,
standing outside, taking it all in again.
Folding fitted sheets is frustrating.
Creases, folds, fabric nuances,
cohorting together, an evil alliance
making clean lines impossible.
Squinting through the window.
There they were, throwing darts.
The door opened, exit-ers,
into the hoard, into the night.
A yellow ugliness about everything,
grotesque for grotesque’s sake.
He thought about telling her:
‘I’ve never been lovers
like I’ve been lovers with you.’
But he was just another
‘Life is best lived
in a pair of blue jeans.
Blue jeans in bed
for a hot second.
Curtain calls, maybe yes,
maybe no way, jose.
And ice cream spooned
by the bucketful.’