Mud-Men

We coated ourselves in a blanket
of mud and dozed with the cattails
on the bank.

A man once died not five feet
from here, slumped forward,
his feet fermenting in the cold
water.

We heard his voice in our dreams.
He spoke of nibbling fish and biting
pebbles under our bottoms.

He was a mud-man like us, making
friends with mosquitoes and horseflies.
His hands were caked with dirt
and the juice of onions.

He was a muddy man, composing
morning songs with sparrows
and swallows, and he died
with his sixty-six year old
toes dangling in the current.

Now he sleeps in the sky
and speaks to us in our mud
dreams, with wild grasses and cattails
swaying above our heads.

The Hunter in my Head

There are duck-calls in my head
that go off every time I think.
Often, the insistent honk
of geese follows, as does

A man dressed in dark brown.
I've heard rumors that one
does not need a hunting license
in my head, though I still don't know

Where the man came from.
When I try and think through
this problem, he starts shooting
or calling ducks, and I simply can't

Hear myself over the noise.
I once asked him to quiet down,
but he just stared at me
and fluffed the feathers of

The mallard he was holding.
I can only imagine what his wife
must think of him spending
so much time in my head.

The World Ends

There is a man who stands
in his living room and watches
the world ending outside his window.

He holds tickets that he bought
in advance to see the end of the world.

The world is ending outside the man's
window and all he can think about
is the origin of ice cream.

The man watches the world end
and wishes he had mint chocolate
chip ice cream.

The man is eating ice cream
in his head while the world ends
outside.

The man thinks about how he
should have gotten tickets
for his neighbors so they could watch
the world end with him.

The world ends outside the man's
window and the world ends inside
the man's living room and the world
ends on the origin of ice cream.

Eye Socket

I thumbed your eye sockets
as though your lashes and lids
and eyes had fallen out, as if I
were sponging dough on the dining
room table.

I could hear your brain matter moving
like goulashes sinking into mud.

As I recall it was a rainy day,
though with my thumbs in your eyes
all you probably recall is the pitter
of the raindrops on the roof.

My thumbs were in your eyes,
and my palms were pressed
into your cheeks, red with fluster
and embarrassment.

I could feel the blood breathing
under your skin, the motion
of a snake sliding through your arteries.

You clawed my arms and forked
your tongue. Thunder rattled
the storm windows.

I pulled away and vomited
in the corner.