A crowded smile in the middle of the street.
Waiting for someone to come pat me on the
neck and get that blood flowing. Faucets of life
drenching the crosswalk and not a soul crossing—
Lost and found on a Sunday morning. What a
time to remember being born, to taste the earthiness
of wilting sunshine between low coastal fog.
Do the leaves always scatter so, tossed like
halloween candy from an unfriendly doorway?
My legs are restless and endless. The shadows
from light poles saunter wide across the grey streets
laughingly running over cars. I’ve heard it said
that the path is the path, and the obstacles are the way.
Just never considered which side I was on.
I want to hold all things at once
caught snug between forefinger and thumb.
To never let a tear slink itself down
the chalky contours of an empty face.
The wave ———— rears up in angst to crash
delayed ————— upon the whole heart of the surfer
who waits ———– trusting no one around her. Have
the lessons ———- been written yet that need to be learned.
Oh, little mouse. You’ve taught the world
to cater their whims down to the toothpick
to loathe your litany just as you do. Clutching
the ocean in an empty fist is a sure way to
hold it all in. Half escapes and falls
to the seafloor and half absorbs forever.
dust bidden and stronger for it
with arm muscles wide enough to carry
the coastal world upon untired shoulders,
an indefatigable grin lightly on the brow.
Yet be it that a swooping wasteland
came to knock the rubber right off her
rampaging, unlimited upon the full scope
of the soul. Broken. Sorely borrowed.
To become cowards in moments like these
is the real pity. To raise the chin once more
and begin again is no effort at all; there is
no chagrin in the epilogue of a victim.
A horse and her rider lay prone on a glassy hill.
Trace a finger down the slope and we come to The
Base—which in this case we may simply call
The Problem. The horse keeps her head down but
the rider sits up, placing two shiny palms against
the slipperiness of the hill. She sees something like
the aftermath of a supernova, the early immigrations
of the English folk and realizes—deeply—where she is.
If she were to rush to her feet, she would surely
slip against the slickness of the hill and plummet down
unburdened to The Base. Where the debris awaits.
If she were to stay, she risks eternal anxiety. Another sort of death.
Every tree in the orchard dangles ripely, unjustly
dripping luscious fruit the size of four hands. The
imposter sits, supremely still, in the midst of it all
and gazes upon the garden scene. The kale is full
to overflowing; the carrots are digging a well for
themselves; the rabbits have compounded labor
for a new wire fence and the imposter gazes down
at her hands. These hands? Only two hands.
What’s the use of two hands with these fruit trees?
Two hands catch nary a seed, for the seed is
the whole, and these hands are but two. Marigolds
face the drowning sun rays and try to hold tight
Not many people know it but Mona Lisa had a dog.
Continue reading “Mona Lisa’s Dog”
Voyages of a footfall in late November
in the woods west of Kansas City. Boot tread
the color of faded apple dust, scenting
like a coon hound the wizened mushroom
stumps of a wild summer. I’m not quite sure
where I am, until I reach the pond —
then my black gloved hands gently nurse
a calm hello to the bark of the dogwoods
that line the scummy lagoon like sentries.
In the erotic decay of a late afternoon
I search for the lillies. The yellow ones
grow here, all the way until first frost.
Look out the window sometime;
with the bold winds dancing through
the Banyan trees it’s pretty in a lanced way,
a little bodega in the neighborhood-way.
From the balcony, I can hear gentle laughter
of soccer boys and soccer girls
kicking dogwood trees instead of soccer balls.
Damn, if it doesn’t get me every time.
If I were older, I would have fled the scene
and left the dimes and dollars for a loss—
but the balanced way the sun light
hits the nonsense breeze —
makes me look left and right
and over and under every time.
Pink lips fleshy in the strength
of a noon day sun, bright against
a man with white hair, the lips moving
endlessly near the crosswalk.
I couldn’t hear what he
was saying. I don’t think he could
Tough. (I don’t feel tough though, my tongue
is on the gritty floor and covered in dirt and
debris from a weekend of debauchery. I don’t
feel anything other than tired.) I’m told the
blue jays mate even when they’re dying, as if
evolution could not hold a reverent bow
for the last breath of an angry bird. Supposedly
that attitude was in the contract I signed
a year ago, though the angry part suits me
the best. I didn’t used to be so angry.
I think I used
to be tough.
For all intents and purposes
I’m in a nunnery here.
The walls are perfectly
seamless, creased at the edges
like good walls, the good girls
the good cockroaches the good
Lord will take it all away
When He So Wishes.
Fair enough.
Continue reading “Nunnery”
From destiny comes our definition for
curiosity — ragged dog-eared library books
waiting for the reshelving, theoretically loved
but abused
nonetheless.
the Hydrogen Jukebox 