THE GROTTO 

maybe baby corn and brussels sprouts
are the adolescent punks of the produce section.

and plantains must be their gang leader, a napoleon complex
like no other.  recruiting their army of disenchanted youth, hazing
the broccolini and baby spinach for member ship.

and i could see them after hours, when the florescent lights die down,
after the custodial crew has left, before every one is showered for the night
in the fine mist
of fluoride, bleach, turpentine.

i suppose they sneak out to tag the organic section
with pesticides.  scrawling "grow a pair hippie" or "wilt this".  on
their untarnished skin.  crossing

the lines of street corners, the neatly divided sections of town
to expand their turf, changing labels to prove they're tough enough,
to fuck with shoppers the next day long.  'cause after all, who can really tell
the difference between swiss chard or mustard greens, bokchoy or kale?

too young to know any better.  they swap out, "buy local" stickers
with chiquita and dole; certainly worth the laugh.

and the way to earn their bar codes,
tattooed proof of their acceptance.  and in the morning
if they don't get picked they won't care why.  it's certainly a
tough life.

whether it be cart by shootings,
or simply withering out to die.  so few, make
it out to the grotto.

intimacy must be different for the terminally ill.  the way an infant is promised the fruit it's being fed
is something it'll love forever.

truth be told, those taste buds haven't caught up yet.

yet she still swallows it down and smiles
doing anything to be, "a big girl." because "she's at that age"

when she's almost old enough to be told she's dying.

and what a way to get ahead

when you finally find out your timeislimited.

what else to do?

but fast forward through life, skipping the boring parts
unless they were vital part to the process.

that's not to say one might be cutting life in half by any means,

but by being
a stone you still need to be defined by physics.  water

over time can't help but created results.

oval,
smooth,
pleasant to the touch.  and even the gift of ripples

when thrown horizontally across the water.  and the tiny things
they might stand for.  and how those things
could so easily stand for your eternity.

grow, change, learn, love,

trial, error, hormones,

romance, slut, pretend,

drugs, dream, depressed,

silent,

then,

peace,

content, happy

enough

to

settle.

PUT ON HOLD

be that as it may, i still feel

from time to time...

this wasn't always the case.

years of alcohol and drugs, even though
i abore the cliche
kept me from such juxtaposed luxuries
intentionally.

and those ridiculous things
such as feelings, when put on hold,
have a funny way
of rearing their ugly head
when they're not wanted.

(seeing how they were never wanted
in the first place.)

and you
feel silly after wards (when they catch up).

like running away from some unseen force in a horror film.

full sprint through the woods; looking over your shoulder
cut shot to cut shot for editorial pacing.
and the aggressor is simply walking.

sure, looking menacing, but gaining none the less.

imagine such a terrifying moment
seeming insignificant, when you've made it such a way.
therein lies the horror.

after all, you chose to run in the first place.

on opiates, without having eaten in days, but on your thirteenth
jack and coke

so the calories still count.

at the time you felt
you had the, "jump" on the things.  the things

you made small enough
to tuck away and hide.

when you grab the bridge of you nose, stare at the ground,
shaking your head side to side is when
you find them in your pocket.

stow aways this entire time.

then,

finally,

out of breath, you look behind you.

wipe your brow and pat yourself on the shoulder.
thinking you outran the things that were destroying you.

('cause denial is the easiest part yet.)

and since it was obviously time to celebrate
you grab your smokes,

check your pulse, then

reach for your lighter.  though

fumbling around reveals a recollection, this
smiling beast that you thought clocked
in after you in the imaginary race you've been running.

and it hits you,
like licking sandpaper and liking it, or jaywalking

while the person who followes suit
gets crushed instantly by a bus.

you can't outrun the blocked out parts
of your life.  mostly because they never extend courtasy.

any and always an inappropriate time
to show up.  and if i battled them back when

i was sure of myself, i might have stood a chance.

though now is not that case.  so i give up, give in,

i beg to be devourer whole.  and plead that you
not bite, or chomp, nor chew.

and, i promise next time to get back to you.

pay my proper respects.

deal with you
in the moment.

your esophageal sounds
will be my music, and i'll  rejoice

in being left to digest in the sweet music
of the situation.