Tuesday, April 28, 2009

The Mustache!

What you might not notice
by reading these words
is that I have a 
as I write them 

and this mustache persists 
even through
the length of this
sentence or this 
poem and then,
at night, 
underneath faint starlight
(or nights that aren't lit)

this mustache grows.
The length 
of my upper lip is comforted
by these unshorn face pores.
In its gauzy blanket
I find warmness.
My mustache, my honey.
The warm syrup of my
mustache is what I tongue

when I lick toward my nose.
The mustache grows! Alive!
And like thousands of bad movies
these pressures 

keep pressing.
The deep dreams they can't describe

in the mustache!