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Scott Nichols
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croutons
if a kiss
is small
we eat it all
when the kiss
snowballs
you ask me
where you been
and why
I gotta do it
at all
5.21.01
lincoln heights, CA
submitted
My wife says I should quit my job, pack up
And move to Kansas, land of virgin air
And lines that fill a garter snake with smut.
I turned to her, hot with sleeping sweat,
Betting the gods would find me wet, find me
Electrocuted, worse, or coughing blood.
Lightning rods struck thru my head to the sea.
The village rut fucking me when I could
Care less. I stop cars for everyone to
Watch this, yelling out to bystanders, "Look!
I've been batfucked! Go home, I'll go now, too!"
I shamble like a stumbling wet drunk,
Pissed-out by dreams beyond the realm of dreams.
I think of wet matches, fire washing them clean.
5.18.01
norwalk, CA
untitled
"My mother spared the rod,
because she preferred to use her hand."
Will Durant, Transition, 1927.
head shots
I got the haggard cheeks of all my aunts,
Their lack of melanin, the stringy hair,
The right to choose without a hint of chance.
It is said I got the family flair,
Perhaps all of it, whatever that means.
Maybe it was the transition from child
To man, or maybe nature's perfect scheme
To separate the milder from the mild,
To take the manner out of mild, or worse.
I think of the dream I had: I was twelve,
Lying on my aunt's daybed, her nightshirt
Torn, wet, clinging to me while we made love.
When I came, I told her I was leaving.
She laughed tears. One of us has to be wrong.
5.23.01
norwalk, CA
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