Bird says, “set the coffee here, please and oranges if you have them.” Between green wings, that of a bamboo shoot so light green it’s almost wilting, Bird grasps the white ceramic handle and lifts the mug to his beak. From his high perch
Valerian gardens, gardenias in the rosebushes sunlight twilight and mountain rain makes everything grow like this. Tricolored notebooks rest easy on the table near me and the door opens once more. The door opens. Has been opened. Will be opened.
Taking myself by the forehead, coffee stains and Rosie O’Donnell in the corner, I look at the calendar year 2016 to see the border collie panting peacefully in the meadow. A chair scraps against the dusted tile. The sound bounces from high windows into my ear drums. Earthquakes ensue. Short shorts and cups of Joe spinning endlessly through wordless soliloquy I think how … Read More Coffee Talk
The fist comes down upon the table and the scatting, echoing, marauding clang bumps and lurches about the steel room— the table holds, tho’ it’d rather sink to the knees, and the mice feel small amid the balloon. I take my time and draw in a breath— & before the intake reaches the zenith the fist comes down again on the table—
Fists to the wall, my marble friend, for who hears no chime when the cup is set upon the porcelain? If you lean in close, you’ll hear sentences, casting around the four walls whimpering in rhyme, dripping in furnishing, fur lined over long sips of hot tea cozied up to the counter longing to call it good—
I wake beside your name— half in snore, half without the curling interpretation of window time patters down from the Mountains. And in the hushed dew of the dawn pines the lone, sleepy bee heads forth from hive to seek the outdoors. Mingling together, the mountain and the bee, pollen falls in thick droves from the heavy clouds.
Key: x = Donald Drumpf y = voters z = state o = Republicans b = women Render the verdict on x. Y come together to come apart at the nation’s seams, rippling constantly a fool’s errand elongated across a sea of z’s, all in it to win it. O hold the whip against the non- whites, the non-brights, the non-O really, including … Read More Calculus
What happens. What happens, when the cold morning breath of a foggy night slips under the covers and over the lips and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug to a world that smells of light eucalyptus and an open balcony door — What happens.