"... the little buds can go unnoticed until they break open ... "

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Michael recommends these on line literary sites.

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Mr. McNeilley

Michael McNeilley

sun on the wings of passing birds

the wire could use just a bit more slack.
it's strung so tight, the breeze vibrates it
like a guitar string. though the air here
has been still, I cannot count on this.

the flowers I steal from the yards
of the uncaring; I take them from
their alleys, roses that hang over fences,
unnoticed roses; and from the rooms

of the dead. the hospital is having
a run of bad luck, it seems. I fear soon
the graveyard will be filled, and I'll
end up buried somewhere else,

a stranger. the rose stems I trim as best
I can, but now and then I miss a thorn,
find it later between my lips. I hold the roses
in my teeth to keep both hands upon the pole;

balance is everything. between the buildings,
above the square I walk today as every day.
these eyeglasses slip down my nose;
useless, I can barely see my feet. but it is good

not to focus on too much beyond; so I always
look down, but I never fear the distance.
of course I never see you there below me,
but I can feel your scented presence, know

by some small certain sense just where to drop
a rose. moving them from mouth to hand is
the tricky part. this is the bone of faith, the
utterance that will one day bring me down.





eat it, it would eat you

I remember your story of a dream,
of pulling wires out of your arm,
thick black wires that ran from deep
within you, pulling them out and throwing
them away, and how the space
inside you filled up with red jello
and whipped cream. a good dream.

Washington, DC, the restaurant
down Pennsylvania a few blocks
from my office, I forget the name
but they can their own soup, you can find
a can sometimes in yuppie markets.
a restaurant known worldwide
as a menagerie for the gut.

the day we ate the snake, an appetizer.
you in your tiny black dress, spaghetti
straps, heels, looking more like food
than any food, and more like snake.
the snake a not so appetizing rattler,
all spine and rubbery ribcage bending,
rattle quiet in a pool of roux.

I slouched there almost thinking,
pulling bones out of my mouth.
and perhaps a better man would have
tied one in a knot with his tongue,
a strange cherry stem for your palm,
but I waited watching you instead, picking
between the ribs with a tiny fork,
it was all that I could do, intent

on your nipples tracing circles
on black silk as you moved
laughing to try another bite. both
wishing it tasted more like chicken,
wondering of the wild boar next to come,
though by then I had begun
already thinking of dessert.





roses, geraniums, sausage, snapdragons

it is too early in the morning
on the day the clocks change
but I am up anyway,
no one to wake up to
nothing to watch but this computer screen
though later there will be football,
which is so much better than news
since somebody always wins;

no one to talk to, no voice to answer
though this is not always a bad thing.
and it is raining just a little,
the sky a perfect grey,
not likely there'll be much
sun today, and not much wind.
just a floating drizzle, a wet fog,
and out on the balcony my plants
look happy it is fall, the work
of summer put away, and they flower

celebration into the mist like you did
the morning before I left;
orange, red, the petals a reminder,
their texture palpable from a distance,
even a couple of yellow tea roses;
I was sure I'd seen the last
of those this season, but you never know,
the little buds can go unnoticed
until they break open, reach out wide.

and I get up to put some sausage on,
work on this first pot of coffee,
take my pills with iced tea.
the rain smell through the open window
over everything until the cloud
of sausage scent rolls in from the kitchen,
and they mix in a happy whirlwind for the nose
as I roll around setting clocks back,
for the moment in perfect control
of time and space.
and I think if I die right now
no one will be left to know
that this was a perfect ending
so in deference to time and space
I write this down.