rose moon
rose moon
dna results arrive
scent of
incense and petals
ancient journeys
“he has a right to be hostile, his being are being persecuted.”
….
while antiquity
is still analog: rebirth it!
deliver yourself to court,
so tehuti himself
may testify on your behalf;
he done seent the whole thing,
a witness to all this ruin…
“yes, o’mighty auset,
he was just minding
his own business like
a sunrise-in-training.
he was in the temple planting
yams and then – BLAM! – tuskegee!
who even demands a priest
to pick cotton? it’s so barbaric!
he wrote it all down, tho; journals
and ledgers and a chapbook. shit,
everyone knows:
telling a yam farmer to tend
to bolls only turns him
into a poet, what else
could he do but write lyrics
in day then slit th’oats
at night? you know,
before all this contagion,
his whole entire family was
valedictorian, destined
to cure cancer! …and look
what they did to him –
singing and dancing
just to sell avocado toast
to people who pick avocados
for fun, but will drop a bomb
on you if you say you’ll pay them
to do it! barbaric…
it’s all so barbaric.
i’m just surprised
it took him this long
to snap. it’s a miracle,
really.”
It is now established
completely vindicated–
cloud removed.
Unilaterally, surreptitiously
overwhelmingly clear–
we’re under siege.
I have no idea.
I’ll take a look
under the couches.
That dog won’t run.
Curiosity about Russian meddling:
the dog that has never barked.
Spin for me
Covfefe
You won’t be surprised.
The helicopter rotors hurl wind at us.
We sprint forward, hunched
against the blast, fling ourselves
into the seats; and, breathless, we whoop
at the instant surge upward
into the belly of the sky and the domain
of the Alps:
jutting towers of rock,
snow-draped peaks,
chandeliers of mist,
dazzling blue backdrop.
We are a curious speck
blowing through the land of giants. We
point exclaim laugh snap
dozens of photos.
360 degrees of window, of beauty
glimpsed
in what feels like slow motion.
Dots on a peak soon sharpen
into shapes:
team buses, mobile TV units, vendor tents,
thousands of fans, helicopters parked
on a grassy field.
Our transport drops down, lands
We spill out and dash
to the edge of the field, shouting
like kids just off a roller coaster,
having the time of our lives.
“I have fairly high intuition & hope
abounds…”
You promised, & I promised, separately
we’d stay cool. But fever rises in its own
time
and eventually, it is time
to step offbeat, offline, & into whatever
comes.
I think I failed before you failed, together
with expectation, anticipation, consternation
waiting
each day the accumulation of degrees
until, sweat on brow, fever breaks & promises
only
heighten first sensation. When it comes—
{& it comes, eventually, just as the body
lifts}
a prayer, from parted lip to parted lip,
by whatever books present the first & best
possibility
& prescription.
I’m the champagne bottle cork
that rockets out
and gives you a black eye
when you’re trying to celebrate.
I’m the spare tire
in the trunk of your car–
there in an emergency,
but always flat
when you need me.
I’m the battery in the bottom of the storage bin.
You needed me two months ago,
when the power went out
but I was nowhere to be found
because you kept me in the dark
when all I wanted
was to help you shine.
And now I’m dead.
I’m the tiny piece of chalk,
whittled down,
used and used and used and used
until I am small
but still useful
so you can’t throw me away
just yet.
There is a small dent
in the side of your car.
That’s me.
I give it personality,
a little bit of flair,
but you would be happier
if I had never happened.
I’m too much
but I’m never enough.
I am the hollowed out oyster.
The meat of me has been sucked out,
eaten, and enjoyed.
Now I’ve been discarded.
Your love is conditional
and often selfish,
but I am the one to blame.
I hold you back.
I keep your wings bound.
My storm is toxic
and my heart
wounds too easily.
But it’s okay.
I understand.
I’m a liability.
