Posts for June 3, 2018 (page 7)

During the Battle of the Belgium Bulge,
a soldier from rural Kentucky, blown from his foxhole,
young, still alive, breathing foreign
air, lifeless to thought, to feelings, to loving a woman,
never would have fathered nine children had he died,
and I would not have been the second born to write.

                                    As I write to–                 
                                                  day an a                           
                                                        poem

see my words as tribute to soldiers who died or lived
and would not find the life they
lost on a typical day in their war. I am no
visionary poet. They are or were.
All of them suffered or hid their sufferings
daily. Some of the coped. Some could not.
On their days of dark and dreary
rememberings, they drank, they withdrew,
enduring, enduring any way the could.

                               After I write to-
                                                   day an a
                                                          poem,

I will go to Hilltop Cemetery
to celebrate Father’s Day
and celebrate other family sons
who fought with him–

“it’s too hot,”
you said.
but we both know
there’s ice
in your veins.
the piano plays
and we compare
our monstrous hands.
you’ve got a light,
but no heat.

I will watch my maters grow.
They will reach into the sky.
And my belly it will growl.
And my eyes, yes they will cry.
As will I!

“Oh mater, come to me.  You will go
right through me.  You’re red, you’re black.
A wonderful snack.  You’re yeller, ol feller.
A good, good smeller.  Acidic and sweet.
You’re so hard to beat.
No you’re not mistaken.  I cook me some bacon!
Put salt on a slice.  You know it’s so nice,
with mayo and bread!  It goes to my head!
One day I’ll be dead, so today I’ll be fed!
Ol ken tuck ee dirt, all over my shirt,
and it’s soaking wet, all covered in sweat.
The sunlight beats down, hits hard on the ground!
It’s what maters need, from fruit to the seed!
Come to me ol mater! You ain’t no potater!
I buy those you know, but you I must grow!
I waited through ice.  I waited through snow.
And now I can’t wait to reap what I sow!

So go you ol mater!  Let’s go!  Grow!”

we baste within moonlight
until bodies are good and moist, 
good, nappy and made the most natural.

look: raven has gotten into the melons again
the rinds are left in ruins. we are the slurry 
that gathers beneath, feeding ant and worm.

as rain, our ochers are everywhere
like a comfortable collage: this one i call 
‘odalisque in three stages of decomposition’.

you always refuse to close your mouth:
the cawing. the cooing. our nocturnal cries
worn smooth as we lean in for kiss.

Do you remember the story 
Of the girl whose parents were swept away
By a tropical monsoon 
Or burned in a fiery village ? 
The girl child floated on to 
The safety of a den of wolves 
Where she was raised as one of their own
Where she gave birth to wolves 
That tore at her breast with their teeth
Did you ever feel she wasn’t safe ? 
Or did you know she had found a far better fate, 
Had been shown better care 
than if she remained with her true family ?

               For Oscar Geralds, 1929-2018

On a trail some thirty years ago,
paying no attention
to the beauty around me,

yapping up a storm,
I asked Oscar what he he considered to be
the best years in a person’s life.

Hiking in front of me,
he answered quietly,
“right now.”

Driving past Spalding’s
on a Sunday morning
donut seekers waiting
all the way out the door.

It feels like I’m watching
Mick and Mr. Jimmy
standing in line outside
the Chelsea drug store.

My roommate said
she only needed
45 minutes.

So we set the alarm
thinking that gave us
plenty of time.

But what she meant was
she was going to
stay in the bathroom

While I stood outside
bouncing from foot to foot
trying not to pee.

There may be delays in execution
But I always keep my word.
I informed you long ago of my conditions
It’s with All my regret I get this done.
To purge is to an exorcise what exercise becomes.
I’m never good at making sense.
Don’t hold me to that last one.
I can’t think about it too much.
It’s just no good for me.
I can’t think about you too much–
My obsessions tend to breathe.
I don’t think that is healthy for either you or me.
It’s too easy to grip you selfishly
So now I’mma let you go
Lovingly.