On the inside bottom down I sound
like grumbling fog through alley’s dark
and puddle rain. Back seat vinyl,
chocolate melting, finger licking,
buttons popping. Sounding deeper
still and down, the sounds of
shiny, champagne glasses, sugared
crystal lemons squeezing.
Sounds like jars and bowls
of gold bells blowing, tall grass
shooshing, pretty April breezes.
Chanting mystic melodies,
empty pockets yawning, snowflakes
sifting new night snow.

From underbelly inward down you sound
like church pews bumping uglies,
screaming dogs in big, red barns.
Croupy coughing, bonnet stamping
noises know you, do you.
Come down sounds of back wood splitting,
gavel cracking, corn field booking. Your innards
sound like anthem belching, tires squealing,
greased pig callin’ good ol’ boys.
And drinking down sound even deeper
than you dare,
the daily dirge of door nails dying
very slow deliberate deaths.

*Whispers & Shouts, Iss. #3; November 1998 *San Francisco Salvo; November 1998 *Mind Fire Poetry Journal, Vol. 2, Iss. #12; December 1998 *Thunder Sandwich #6; January 1999 *Realm Whispers, Vol. 1, 3rd Edition; January 1999

© Getty & Fey.