To my love
In the south
pitter patter
of
gentle rain
breezes flow
through
open windows
occupant
anticipates
return
of
“The master”
Wonder if it raining
In a faraway land?
Lonely rock mesa trail thoughts:
Irrationality is generational
Everything conquers evil
All good gets destroyed
Collective nouns create divides
On the bone prairie of bison
stomach pine-nut hungry
with the slow ache of being
unnecessary— vote on how
to vote in an endless hurricane
of hurt feelings and elitist desires.
It’s an x-ray of moral intent.
The only long-term effect is entropy.
And wind blasted bones.
i bear no malice
at fey gods easily strayed
into hate & anger,
casting lots of green
into graven gray,
craven and cowardly…
no, i bear them
no bitter grudge…
but their groupies? yes.
they salt our wound
& call it a tender mercy,
fiddle-de-deeing in unholy
holocausts; come and
take them all! show them
their souls turnt out, until
bleating into deliverance,
they are burnt up soils,
their colluvial debris as
the house on the hill.
but, still… in all of this
manmade modern, this digital
& cheap metals, in the middle
of the misfortunes that mangle:
the sunshine, & a mango,
& two strong hands to pick
the gravel from the garden.
Two yesterday.
Five today.
Mother Nature with balanced pH perfume
births them from her mineral-rich womb
kisses each plant with life and love
encourages growth.
Sunshine sends warm rays, bathes them in TLC
wraps each leaf and bloom in grace
develops colorful maturity.
Removal of pesky weeds offers space to breathe
frees each one to stretch out, to reach for the sky
promises a welcome retreat.
1000 tiny fairies fly down in raindrops, dewdrops
and touch each emerald green beauty with magic mist
giving them timely refreshment.
Godmother sits among the stars and
watches over all of them in moonlight
whispers prayers of sweet abundance and plenty.
These suburban zucchini plants flourish like a charm.
I expect a
dozen more tomorrow.
When the sun throws deuces
Streetlights raise. Up and down
The avenue asphalt plays host to this
Tang sitting in a glass haze from above.
Not much traffic out this evening
Accept the rain and a gray cat that owns
The sidewalks. Steps with the confidence
That makes any night turn
Into red seas. Sirens are not disturbing
The peace. No gun clap. Not even
The tick tick boom of a trunk full of 15s
In the distance a rumble.
It’s just quiet
That’s all
Anger seeps into his mind
like floodwater crossing
a threshold, bringing with it
pollutants: toxic, poisonous.
As it settles, mildew forms
on all surfaces. It spreads
like a wildfire, consuming
everything in its path.
The house remains closed
’til it collapses from within.
Was it too late to rebuild?
The edge of a scab is as the myth of love.
Proverbs are open to interpretation and cocktails.
Be frightened by the face of one.
A proverb is sap and goop,
a tongue in sorghum molasses,
a bar-back’s groan,
a frozen Coke,
factory-vat sour mash.
Hear the pattern of matching shirts,
a Cleveland chauffeur,
O’Henry of the O’Henrys!
Do not be frightened of anything.
Smile with your mouth full!
Fondiberate if you can!
A turkey gobbles loudly
because a bad apple bit the dust
and some bowls are made of spalted maple.
You will be glad you are not going to
end up as a peach fart, Buddy Boy.
That long hound of lies,
her walk is as svelte as a woodchuck.
I carry myself around town in a lemon rind.
Sasquatch is not his personal pet.
She will not be tortured any longer.
There will be no congratulation line at the wedding.
Lousy nuptials…
tie the cans to the curb!
It’s always partridge around here.
Your eyes kick back.
The scab rips.
