Puzzling

Groggy-headed, pasty-mouthed,
Moldy tongue, looking south,
Scratched my hair upon my head,
Then my balls.  Hmm.. this is not my bed
 
This house is strange but not my plight,
'Twas not, I sensed, an atypical night,
Of drink and drug and debauchery,
And what's this?  Some casual archery?
 
"Well that's a first" , I managed a thought,
Instinctively seeking to fill the blank slot;
How on earth did my best shirt get pinned up,
Along with a skirt and and many bras of each cup?
 
With a blink and a double fisted rub of my eyes
I looked to the ceiling, at first just surprised,
At my dangling jeans bullseyed through the crotch,
And beside them a faded and crusty old sock - not my own
but surely a creepy sign to keep watch.
 
Now a tickly feeling at my inner thighs,  
Only noted at the moment I moved to rise,
Having lifted the cover, my mouth instantly dried
I beheld first my socks, skewered, no lie!
 
The arrow buried in mattress, a totem
Less than an inch from my ignorant oblivious scrotum,
My socks, watch and rings, a macabre shish-ka-bob!
"what is this murderous message?" I sobbed.
 
I scrambled and flipped the covers aside,  
Snatched my shirt, and my jeans, no time for my pride,  
Then my socks, watch, and rings, then leapt from the bed,  
Is there some other thing?  I pat at my head.  
 
Whatever it was or could have possibly been,
It's not worth one more moment of this nightmaish scene,  
I slapped on my shirt,  my socks and my shoes,  
Goddamn  I could use some half-ass good news,.  
 
As I pulled up my jeans and careened to the door,  
A figure popped up, as if from under the floor.
Her smile and the article twirling on a finger,  
Were last what I saw as I yanked up my zipper,

And the last thought I had 'fore I screamed and collapsed,
"I have a perfect high C when I zip up my sack.

Tara Scutum was her name
A witch at heart
With a superb field of Dandelions
Despised by the purists
Who walked by
But some of her favorite dears
Tended with so much care
Made her fly.

 
I think I burned all your presences  
in the shadows that the sun puts on the walls  
I think I tore up all the pictures  
in which you weren't smiling your light  
 
I don't think there's anything left under the rugs  
after sweeping the room of the uninhabited house  
I think the cup was half full of hot air from balloons  
and the plate, chipped, was half empty and sad  
 
I think you left without telling me what to do  
I think you left without telling me what to do  
I think you left  
without telling me what to do  
 
I think I burned my skin in the blazing sun  
and I heard the sound of the walls cracking  
under the insistent sun of eternal winter  
of your eyes burning in all the photos  
 
I think you left and I didn't know what to do  
I think you left and I didn't know what to do...


PAR