coelacanth journal poems

Slow Dance

Brain bed

Boob desk

Flat flat



This morning I mop my floors. And so,

with wall to wall carpeting clenched cold and wet between my toes, I press on

on the dryer, and soon my bedspread is tumbling dry to the rythem of my big toe,

the captain of the toes, tap-tap-tapping.

Dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dotting.


They laughed.

They were laughing.

Were they laughing?

People laughed.

People have been laughing.

People should laugh.

Some people are laughing.

All people must have been laughing.

The smartest people will be laughing.

Her friend is an accountant.