Relative to Time, Space

I have friends who
act eccentrically
when a pet dies.
Still leave the water dish out,
engage in long conversations
about nasty Mr. Squirrel.
I suggested they contemplate
a different animal species.
Some tortoises live
well over a hundred years
and espouse political indifference.
“You know what a turtle is
don’t ya, same thing.”

Seance for a Protagonist

The clairvoyant was
part Sage, part Seer
not yet incorporated.
I asked him if I would
ever shag Madonna,
the only one who had not
prone to abject worthlessness.
He gazed at my plaid trousers
stirred his martini with
a jewel encumbered pinky,
said he saw a tailor in my future.
Suggested several, softening
my many hovering anxieties.
Knew I had arrived by taxi alone
boring the esoteric driver sharing
some spoken-sung abbreviated lyrics,
candleled by the wind. Predicted
I would phone another taxi soon while
not re-experiencing the original driver.
Assured me Morocco is gorgeous
in September, all of us except
the clairvoyant barely into June.

The Fetishes of Fallen Women

An obvious inability to rent this apartment
if the people on the first floor
continue to block the stairway
with their Huxleyan hat boxes
and use the hallway as their closet.
Some clothes still wet from the wash,
retain an unsuccessful glycerin denying odor.
Not unlike the North Sea frantically trying to
distinguish between each kelp embossed oppressor.