At Rest

Christ left his cross at the bottom of the stairs,

coming in to watch women cook and 

listen to Muddy Waters. 

he's soggy and his hair hangs down.

he's tired, meaning that his very marrow

is heavy from the fray. 

the women feed him apples,

caramelized in brown sugar,

avocados, warm and

smothered in bragg's. 

To My "Imaginary" Friend -- this isn't a poem.

so your dog says to me, 

"you're not who I want but I'll settle." 

I assure him I feel the exact same way, and allow him

to recede into the back of my knees. allow isn't the

right word, I like it. 

I'd rather stare at your stuffed bunny than sleep or face the day. 

things keep moving. I'd like to be more than just dragged 

along, to do some dragging, as it were. but, the imaginary 

mermaid whose bed this is said it better. it's the youthful

path of/to elimination, and things will fall away faster than I 

can create them, as I created you. 

I have a favor to ask you. don't fall away? 

a person's life is usually too much to ask for. It is always too much to give to someone who didn't ask for it, conditioner smell/problematic eyes notwithstanding. 

peeling my skin from the sheets, I roll a cigarette cigarette fuckyeah cigarette I know it's important but 

why? 

I roll one up and step into a white symposium of birds singing 

"Phaedrus! Phaedrus! Phaedrus!"  

The Garden

Fungirls stroke each other's hair and

garden for mandrakes in secret,

when Funboys aren't there to hear the screaming of

mandrakes, when they touch Fungirls'

finer hairs, and forgetting Fungirls'

names, go off talking in search of Funnergirls,

leaving them bleeding, cooking and eating

Mandrakes.