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.
Blow and above
the great cloudline puffs
digging heels in the volcano crater
little tail wrapped neatly along the coast.
It’s been an age since I’ve seen it done
but there the birds go again
Grace dissolves the graceless rendering rock
stone again
bone again
time and time again
I coat the palms of my hands
with a working class mentality.
Having made this
I forget what to do with it.
Here I am, an old woman in the hooded doorway
of a young woman’s life
the twist of my hand like a spent willow
from a distance a sapling unbent
the nature of the willow.
I have lost objectivism. Why should I keep it?
What good has my rooting in the ashes done
but smear the blackened ink against the window-pane
like an early frost. My doorway is wide.
I can see the barefoot children lapping at the wind
webbed fingers swiping wildly at the breeze
that twists and tickles them with their own ringlets.
Having invented time, Father Pigeon
folded his feathers against his chest
and reclined in his Great Wicker Chair.
Regard the sun.
She winks with lashes tall as lies
she smooths the edges of her liquid
grin and calls the birds to flight
before my eyes. Can but even one
crab make it across the black lava rock
before the tide folds itself
once more upon the shore?
I would extend my stick to him
if I could, but my hands dissolve
against the wood and I come to rest.
Three o’clock. Ticking. Ticking.
Trace the time against the pale sky
to find the start of evening. I would if I could.
The willow won’t sway
the sage won’t scent
the goldfinch won’t nest
the life vest will not inflate
the eyes won’t widen
the sun won’t care
the ink won’t flow
the war-lords will not congregate
the clouds won’t lift
the swans shall stay put endlessly
the sea to be a never-ending barren witlessness
& the darkness never felt
The tongue is a dream.
Nothings happens unless first a dream.
the Hydrogen Jukebox 