Author: K. P. F. Holmes

  • Creatures of Habit

    Creatures of Habit

    Toast was burnt. It flaked over the eggs, all milk and cheese, the way he liked. His fork scratched the ruins while the locals bristled. They were prone to distrust him. With dirty nails, fish smell, and napkin tucked in his shirt front, the Croat appeared an older cut of man best left in photographs,…

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  • Kill Yourself.

    Kill Yourself.

    It starts as a joke, chides the schoolmarm voice in your head. Her hands smell of salad dressing and are colder than ice. You learned in Health that women’s digits run on the cold side because their body heat concentrates at the womb. But there’s nothing inviting to the schoolmarm’s maternity. She’s all socks and…

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  • Week’s End

    Week’s End

    Bursts of tissue paper and nerves, I lean over and hope you will stay awhile in the moments.  I want to be close, if not attached,  while the party goes on outside: popcorn on the floor, a tin mug crying with cool, a booth dark with body oil. Here relief tightens,  and Gold Dust Woman…

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  • Cooking

    Cooking

    Are we cooking? Let’s do the bread with pepper flakes and thyme and light candles whose shrinkage  tell of prior nights at a foldup table by the TV,  off. Our shapes engorge on the curved screen.  When will you fly to Indiana?  You’ve printed the ticket and folded it  many times, paper to leather,  transfiguration…

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  • Imaginings

    Imaginings

    No need to be first, no care for right, I ask  the privilege of knowing you  unlike anyone has.  Your sanctum for mine.  Your thoughts in real time,  and a necklace of blue grapes  to make bitter wine as dusk bleeds over Zurich  and dogs’ ears dial to slow taxis— I take the ziggy lane, …

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  • Empty

    Empty

    Good intentions left unspoken, stale before they’re tasted— What’s the use of all this virtue? Your eyes are glazing over for well wishes  unfelt, unmeant, scentless.  No one stays for coffee as the March draft whines through the cathedral of our thoughts.  Let the cups tip and ring. Let the altarcloth snap. Let the walls…

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