The Kind Pimp

If I could snare lightning and
spin it into a fine, gossamer,
lustrous, gold thread I would
suffer electrocution for thee my
sequined starlet of prostitution.

If I could grind the smoldering,
glowing, white, ashen husk of the
moon into a pearl for thee my
mistress of the guttural, come-
hither whisper, I would feel
my corpus collapse in orbit.

But all I have is the winter green floss
on the brothel door's tarnished knob
& a dozen old teeth that aren't yours
that I've collected from uglier whores.

so please show me your happiest grin;
all of the other working girls chipped in.

The Hole Of A Cockroach

We sat on the curb, paperclips in hand.
Joe Shuma impaled a napping cockroach.
The roach's legs pinwheeled and froze in strange pose
as if trying to hug a very close friend...

I wedged the bent end of one clip in below the head.
Shuma asked: Do you think a cockroach has a soul?
I did not know what to say.
Then he took his paper clips back from the roach's body.
A carcass of exoskeleton, limbs, and antennae oozed orange paste
before I smeared the pest under my red, Converse shoe.

Joe blinked a few times.
I said: "Why should we go to Sunday School after this?"
He shrugged. I did too.

KJ likes to make poems a lot.