Ode To Pencil Sharpener

Just a simple tool,
like a man
without dreams.
You are a noisy mill,
rivers of timber
flow to you,
the spinning hub
of industrial commerce.
Brave men
felled the forests,
turning trees into art,
the yin and yang
of paper and pencil,
this human element
of soul conception
placed on parchment,
digested by eyes.
A seed turns to dust
without water.
Poetic muse,
in sheets
the goddess’ rain,
feeble humans
become dull,
can not speak;
a tall mute ghost
that desires nothing
but to be pointed
back in the write direction.
You are like a mother,
with sharp knives
in your womb,
a pencil cocked inside,
you satisfy
the erection
of ideas,
with furious blades
spitting sawdust
in every direction,
yet you store it
close to your gut,
like memories
written in a diary.
Hold on to our secrets,
until we are ready
to spill our soul,
purge from what
has been taken internal,
slough off the worn layers.
Without you,
pencil sharpener,
our dreams may die
unfulfilled, forgotten,
like the tree,
sap evaporated,
sent to the forest floor
by an angry wind,
taken away
by beetles and ants,
and the hungry
fingers of earth.

- R Jay Slais

(added 11.10.08)

Do Not Burn The Toast

She loves to watch the cop shows,
dramatic actors playing on our anxieties,
each day a new challenging case to solve.

Her dreams contain murder,
they re-run over and over
at night; the female coroner carving

out the cadaver heart, held in hand
examining each half for specific flaws.
Her mother is an opinionated bitch

that stated her side too often,
to the point, they were to be memorized;
flaws create character, her mantra.

She never bought into that shit.
Her happiness, to un-pack that new toaster,
a fancy four slice, top of line model.

Perfectly placed next to the knife rack.
Cracked wheat toast makes her smile.
It must have a light coating of butter

spread with her new favorite knife.
She grasps the handle and smiles;
some dreams do come true.

Her house has a crawl space. Dust rises
like unfettered footstep splashes on the moon.
Spiders in the crawl consume their prey

in the dark. That is where her husband rests,
in the dry silt like dirt with all his flaws.
She will have to leave soon,

because she has taken the final slice.
The shower’s steam fills the room;
cleansing her body will feel good,

the hot water sterilizing her joy.
She must hurry, she can’t miss the show;
now she can watch without interruption.

- R Jay Slais

(added 11.10.08)

The Twist

The breeze breath
inside bubble burst
dissipates
only on release
of her sharp touch.

Prospects of love
through shaft extravagant,
vascular’s dim lit drop
into gravity’s moist keep,
web-tied and twisted.

Black widow meal
consumed by feel
succulently,
suck relentlessly,
such a rent was he.

- R Jay Slais

(added 11.10.08)

The Spin

I head outside for a smoke, killing time,
trying to minute away seconds from work’s furious wind,
the rush of emails, paper reports, faxes, and phone calls.

In front of me, a commotion, broken leaves and debris,
scraps of paper, twigs, and golden pine needles
swirl around the thin strip of concrete driveway

leading into the loading dock. They tumble on in
from around the building corner, an unseen force
pulls them into this vortex. It’s a bizarre confusion

with an appealing, somewhat mesmerizing beauty
as they topple and dance like puppets on strings,
at times almost being set free, then sucked back in

to spin into the mix again. They are being forced to work
by something they cannot control. In the center of it all,
a brownish clump of dampness, compressed by last night’s rain

unmoving, not affected by the howling as if they just don’t care,
like dead weight employees. The rest continue to move
in their taunting and repeating pattern, around, in and out,

and around again. I almost feel sorry for them as they are trapped.
Content with the bit of fresh air I have taken in, I weave my way back
toward my place, hitting the fax machine on my way by,

picking up some printed copies, answering a coworkers question.
Finally turning the corner into my cube, I notice it.
One leaf clinging to the cuff of my black dress pants.

I pluck it off, setting it free and place it on my desk.
We both sit still for a moment
to let the world spin around us.

- R Jay Slais

(added 07.09.08)

Soulsell

When bank balance
goes near zero,
we sell our hair.

When they shut off
the electricity,
we sell our blood.

When the pantry
has nothing but air,
we give an arm, a leg.

Foreclosure letter
in the mailbox,
heart in throat,
soul in hand.

- R Jay Slais

(added 07.09.08)

The Commitment

We sat together on the bed.
She said, pull out your eyes,
they are too blue, like the sky;
only the rain can make me wet.
Yes dear, I promise.

We planted flowers in the garden.
She said, cut off your legs,
you are too tall standing there;
your shadow keeps my blooms in shade.
Cross my heart, I will.

We built a beautiful brick sidewalk.
She said, cut off your fingers,
they are too pointed and sharp;
there is a certain way I like to be touched.
So help me, I shall.

I finally told her that I loved her.
She said, that is really nice.
I have always wanted a man
to take care of you see.
Haven’t you pulled your eyes out yet?

- R Jay Slais

(added 07.09.08)