Flight control signals
hard against the rain
against the slick window panes
salt and pepper ocean waves
corn soup flavored popcorn
the day is Friday
and the rain is here.
Did you ever think you could live this long?
That the tongue which rattles the potato-burn
ridges of gum would grace the scoop of inner teeth
to say love? That love could hold your hand for twice
as long as you let it & still remain to brush teeth
together in the cool evenings —
Continue reading “Righting It”
Sometimes you have to unlock the chest
and hurl your throbbing heart into the afternoon air
so stuffy and hateful &
fighting back against the restlessness in those tippy toes
to stand up tall against the counter
and count the screams from the windows.
February falls not far from the wandering tree
these winding fingers this sloping house
the floor on which I stand is coated in crumbles
and my feet slip in their bareness.
Continue reading “Working From Home”
I know about the dough
in the oven. Hot and wild tempered
left a little too long on its own, I know
the shoots and bangs and whirls
the catastrophize the inner workings
of my Bosch broiler. With tiny white rings
on the brown crusted boule I know
the tilt of the rise, the slashes I placed
the claws in claws out. The timer ticks
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
I sit in my ribbed backed chair and bow towards Autumn—
springtime blending in with the leaves of winter & summer
shooting arrows into the black-backed brigade
I wonder at the weather these days
taught and tense in the morning &
easy, nearly sweeping, in the morrow
my own marrow sucked by the cascade winds
that ravage the lonely landscape
looking west for sunshine.
Grave diggers clear the drive way
brushing aside gravel dustings and stately brochures
the children in their homes
where they should not be
eyes heavy with screen time soreness
& hot lunches.
O, to be young again!
the young say
Continue reading “Washing Machine”
The artist at work in her studio
the sweat running down dusted forearms
the sun shining in through plated windows and the artist
barely breathing. So barely
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
how cool to be literate.
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—