COMA

Don't touch that dial,
those tubes. Do not
resuscitate and do
not unsuscitate. Let
me float in the calm
ocean in my boat,

on my back, my face
undarkened by any sail,
untouched by any wind,
kissed only by the un-
shrouded sun. Let me
be, let me read this

wordless poem again
and again, aloud. Listen
closely to my silence,
watch my unmoving lips:
Drop that syringe, Doctor,
and set those paddles down.


DEAD STREET POET

No more glowing
ashes cascading
from hand-rolled
cigarettes past
your mask-like
beard only to
burn more holes
in the thrift shop
T-shirt stretched
skin-tight across
your anomalously
protruding belly as
you work your all-
night, crystal-
meth-inspired jaw.
No more brilliance.
No more locus of light.


LIBRARY TERMITES

are bookish

the workers
devour Marx
and Steinbeck
swarm over
Upton Sinclair

the soldiers
eat breathe and
defecate Sun Tzu

meanwhile the queen
plows through romance
novel after
romance novel

all her suitors
bore


NEW MOTORCYCLE

a new motorcycle
is like a new woman:
hell on the adrenals

something you wake up
knowing is all yours

sexy with big
thick springs in back
and a buddy seat

or, ladies,
a new motorcycle
is like a new man:

sleek and macho
a growler,

a really dumb thing
to bring home.


THE OFFICE THIEF

the cops caught him
just outside town

a chained ball point
wrapped in his fist

the admin building
dragging behind

co-workers staring
from the windows

silently urging
him on.


ONCE BITTEN

a drop of blood falls
from my tongue
into my drink

almost at once
tiny fins break
the surface

and begin circling
as the ice
clinks and swirls


Bio: Pete Lee lives with his wife in a small town in the Mojave Desert,
midway between Mount Whitney and Death Valley. His poetry has recently
appeared online at Armada, Perigee, Quill & Ink, Right Hand Pointing, and
Literary Chaos. You can contact him at pete.lee@mchsi.com.