Week Nine Poems

Number Five. Number Five. Five:

An Obsessive Compulsive Confession

Five clicks of the finger,

Five eyebrow raises this morning,

Five footsteps forward,

Five typewriter fingers tapping a lot,

Five times I wash them,

Five leg-slaps times Five,

Five lifts of the thigh,

Five knee twitches, Five more,

Five inhalations in a row,

Five times my eyelids dive,

Five conversations with women believers,

Five water faucets,

Five shopkeepers that are upset,

Five cracked and green tiles,

Five times I slept yesterday,

Five times I ask directions,

Five times I misspeak,

Five times I misplace something,

Five times I go underneath,

Five: I forget my mind,

Five Is The Color

Of My True Love's Hair.

The Unbearable Fiveness of being.

Number five times Number Five.

"Number Five. Number Five. Five."

Paper Ash Trays

White powder and used volcanic eyeshadow

and bugsplat eyeliner.

Or night time sunglasses.

Chalky insides and Korean black food decay

and dark bleeding ink.

Or a cutting glass evening.

Ashy molasses and swarming burnt eyebrow-hairclumps

and smeared black space.

Or my Hemingway shot glass.

Burnt tips of cigarettes and their black sisters

and spreaded-out ash flecks.

Or the ash tray.