August 2001 / Volume Two / Issue Two
Janet I. Buck
The Tapeworm

I trespass into trouble zones.
Forks I've used have two
bent prongs:  liquor's lightbulb
was the first; the second
was a crossing guard of poetry--
a riverbed of clever owls
that howl in a forest blessed.
Sometimes playing satin pillows;
sometimes hot electric chairs.
Book reports of battle grounds--
harpoons stabbing squirming sharks.
You're wondering about that worm.
A silent crematorium that
takes command of what it sees.
Always in the pinching mode
like toothpicks in a voodoo doll.

Armor of esprit de corps
will always rattle with the night.
The essence of aesthetics honest
grinding chills of history.
I laminate a scorching sun--
reminders and remainders call.
Feel my way like orange peels
that float Venetian tidal pools.
Passing neat unlettered whim--
kidney stones that search for sand
around a birth I thought I knew
but never really truly met.
Listen for the hollow suction
gripping every human heart.
Sparklers of a syllable
I launch and trace remote control.
Moons drop light like boxers shorts
around a messy alphabet.
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