Rob Mallard

I am bleeding asparagus, kind bud, vagina

Lost in a spirited, heart-felt debate--

Will all this porn on the internet lead to

A new breed of mutant, like us from the apes.

I’m leaving my mark on a well worn tomorrow

Or thinking that’s why I get up everyday.

Stains of sweat bead up on the mantle

By the pictures I’m hoping are melting away.

A stain glass of Lincoln in top hat and tails

Adorns the walls of my jazz vespers dream--

Four score and seven feet tall as the tree tops

Peeking in windows to see what he sees.

And I’m bleeding asparagus, pork loin, music

The lines of the choral piece thrashing away.

I see the plump face of the man at the keyboard

Wishing they’d practiced for just one more day.

But the trio played solid,

And the tones were quite spacious.

The drum major’s spittle

Marked time in the air.

And I’m bleeding asparagus steamed with some sea salt

I can smell it over my sighs of relief

Or is that the she crab boiling in onions

That’s hissing so rudely all over my feast?