Here’s to Your Lemon Life

It’s just a self-defense device,
this compromise.
Here’s to your imagined loves
for the rest of your life.
Thoughts and confessions linger
on a one with dented chin and fleshy lips,
with his own, little, baby citrus on his hip.

The lemon trees that you plan to sit under
while you contemplate your own life choices, your vices,
their lemons will they sour on your tongue now,
or will their scent do more for you,
then your own discarded lemon peel?
How will that make you feel?

It’s just a self-defense device,
this celibate compromise.
Drink your lemonade;
here’s to your imagined loves
for the rest of your life.


There is no accounting for haste,
when I’m needlepointing my debate.

You were betrayed in the square;
how often, I didn’t agree with you,
didn’t fit like Tetris.
I found in the surroundings,
a renown for ground optics,
cobbled together with the same care
as pink slime meat,
a meeting of the minds,
a mask made à-la cheapskate.

When there is no accounting for taste,
I’m papier-mâché-ing my hate.


City behold, I lock grip.
The luminescence of my alien juice
lights up the alleyways through long organ tubes.
You’re welcome.

I’m also a capital signal caller.
And I flag you to neon bar, neon register,
neon-lit tip canister, neon restaurant manager.

What’s my meaning?
What’s your interpretation?

I’m just a colorful diversion,
silent magnet for the masses,
and you even outfit me on glasses
that cover eyes that code.
I’m the futuristic dress mode.

Thursday evening tries,
gas-lit by electrodes, electrified.
Your neon acts intensify.
In this market place, I multiply.


I cut off the air supply by way of their heads
of a few rosemary plants to count and test
if he could know me.

But the heads were many
and the wind was one
and blowing them askew.

So what did they do?
They remarked that he did not,
not an encouraging thought.

So now beneath me the ground swells,
gorged on my own personal spoils
of self-preserving oils.