sunday sunday sunday

i

her breath
mine
warm
uneven
an engine hums outside
sparrows argue with a cat
a faucet drips
the muted buzz of the clock radio
her fingernails scratch her scalp
a storm door swings loose

i sit up
rub stubble
one good can of beer
calls from the fridge

i slurp it in the john
she remains asleep
and the sun pours and pours
golden clear warm
at exactly 7:30
i relieve myself

ii

through our east window
i squint across the empty lot next door
the worn canals of baselines conjure
voices of a past generation
yelling “tommy john was safe! tommy john was safe!”
i turn away as a thin youth passes by on a bicycle
strumming an unplugged electric guitar
in perfect balance and harmony with some
distant marketed idol

iii

heartbeat
bedsprings
she stirs
why were we born with such beauty?

iv

butter drips from her toast
coffee, a campfire in my hand
sunday talk radio replaces conversation
i pick at my feet

she takes out frozen chicken breasts
for dinner
our communion

v

inhale the fresh morning
as she slips out the door
for the bakery

exhale
i plop the paper
on the coffee table
dust tickles my nose in a room
where beauty is useless

* first appeared in print in a tiny litmag called Peaky Hide

---

hancock

she brought out these little
chocolate candy animals
giraffes elephants bunnies
some dark some white some on sticks
there was even a cupid
and some heart molds with arrows

told me they were home-made
a sort of hobby
took orders from friends
reminded me valentine’s day was just around the corner

i shook my head

then with child-like enthusiasm
she asked if i liked adult candy
i conceded i wasn’t sure what she meant
she went to the fridge
and pulled out a brown paper bag

“you know, like this stuff...
for your sweetheart...” and she
unwrapped a mold of a naked couple fucking
made of pink chocolate

next she displayed a pair of brown tits
then out popped an erect brown cock spewing
white chocolate down its shaft
then another dick with throbbing veins
this time on a stick

what detail
and all this from a pure stranger
i had to wrestle with my laughter
what was i to think?
should i be blushing? should she?
she smiled “can i take your order?”

if this wasn’t a come on
it was madness
or certainly the trite salesmen’s bored-housewife fantasy
come to life

but i had a quota to meet
and a cold killer instinct
i managed to escape with her prized possession
her john hancock and first payment on
a brand new insurance policy

     Between working at various vocations in Niagara Falls, New York including baker, sales manager, cheese packer, and printer, I've placed poems with numerous litmags, ezines, anthologies, and broadsheets. I co-founded Slipstream Magazine and Press in 1980 and have been a co-editor ever since.
     Lately, I have discovered that more and more of my hair appears to collect around the shower drain. Not a good omen.

other online publications:

Disquieting Muses:
• http://www.disquietingmuses.com/May00/sicoli1.html
• http://www.disquietingmuses.com/May00/sicoli2.html
Thunder Sandwich:
• http://www.thundersandwich.com/ts12/sicoli.html
Stirring:
• http://sundress.net/stirring/archives/v2e1/sicolid.htm