No, no. No sparks from a wall socket.
Do sparks from a lovers toes count for the sockets in the wall?
Fireworks blasting in the 4 am lull of a December dull.
But what is a spark besides a flashing before the eyes,
electricity at the tip of the thumb?

When I was nine I licked a wall socket in pursuit of going numb.
Nothing happened. No shock, no gray fuzz.
But perhaps the lick explains my mental image
of a lightening shock ricocheting every time a dear man speaks,
sparks vibrating the wall’s socket and my eyes bleeding
from the onslaught of foolish lust-fed frenzy.

I would like to lick a wall socket now,
if only to see the impact it would hold on tomorrow,
and the lightening flashed dear men awaiting the then me.


Waffles hot as the hell my mother is headed for,
with two ears and a wide sly grin, a perfect circle nose.
Micky fucking mouse is in my mouth.
He speaks through the plasma TV, a TV my dad will go into
debt to pay because of such frivolous necessity.
Micky Mouse shouts loud, loud, loud, informing me that
a penis that is hard for four hours is a medical emergency.
“What is a penis?” My cherry topped sister asks me.
“A thing, a thing.” I hear myself speak.
“A thing, a thing for you and me to cherish after temple honoring.”
Waxed shoes and lace lined poof waist dress. Pink bow in perfect church ringlets.

I once rode a horse with my Sunday school youth group,
It kicked me in the shin and I nearly went flying in the air,
Destined for my youthful innocent’s celestial kingdom throne
A throne of wisp clouds and candy cane moons that would lead me
To the prince of all princes, Mr. Jesus Christ himself.
But the horse kick only left with me a blue bruise on my thigh
so I could continue eating hell hot waffles molded with Disneyland merchandise.

To ride a bull would be a sin,
a wicked girl’s game to ultimately get laid
by a nicotine addicted tattoo scarred fella
who would sweep her to the hay at the end
of the blistering blasted evil stage coach day.

Syrup so sweet it rots my vacant spleen’s cavity,
I chew my mush of waffle and dare to speak, “Sister, pass the bacon please?”
I sip my concentrated high fructose corn syrup OJ and say,
“A penis is a thing, only a thing.”