I
Curvature held and holding,
the fragility of the liminal–
the cup is warm to the touch
II
A miscalculation–
a cup falls at nine point eight
meters per second
squared
III
The air above holds
what the cups below cannot
IV
The handle of the cup
a hand instincively grabs-
oh, how it is missing out
holding onto its curve
You can grow a child inside your body.
A child that comes from you and is part
of you. You can feel it move, leg scraping
across belly.
She is with child.
Biblical in import. Honor this time
as magical, as though it’s been never
before seen. Buy maternity clothes,
pink and blue cotton stretching over
a ballooning waist. Buy baby books,
decorate the nersery.
There will never have been such a child.
A generational, a cosmic mandate.
Your very cells participate in
a sacred act, your will focused on one
purpose, your body the launching pad
for new life.
Abstract of a dust storm
Arced layers, blades whirling
peeling beings, tons of topsoil
Bottom half a blue-green clot
opaque, choking. Below deep-cut
black fangs, a thick wave
purplish red, spilled blood
We enter a crooked maze of black nylon ropes;
I hope there’s cheese at the end, I say.
From the back of the line, driver’s license in hand,
I see a sea of cowboy hats and baseball caps
telling what side they’re on; my wife’s glad
I didn’t wear my Impeach Trump shirt.
Beside us is the TSA straight-through line
for those declared secure in advance
for 85 bucks and surrender of privacy rights.
The departure gate is filled with people
who wait to be packed like sardines in the can.
A woman in hijab is sitting alone,
book in her lap, Starbucks in her hand.
Nobody talks to her, they just eye her
pink carry-on with suspicion.
I wonder where everyone’s going.
My ticket says destination Atlanta.
I hope it’s not fake news.
Protocol explains it all.
The rich board first, and then the warriors
who guard their hoard and help them get more,
active military and vets with IDs.
The rest of us line up, stratified like clouds
according to what we’ve spent.
My ticket is scanned, then handed back
by a pretty girl with glassy eyes
who chirps like a bird Have a good one.
The flight attendants smile at anything walking
but seem tense, as if they know something.
Our spending zone is the rear of the plane
where no gets a window.
Engines roar, and we take it on faith
that the plane is going up
and the tail will follow the nose.
People in charge would tell us
if something was wrong, wouldn’t they?
the sun was shining
when the thunder cracked.
i saw lightning flash.
its jagged tail disappeared
into the deep woods.
the wind came on quick
and every leaf on the place
turned belly up
to meet the static on the air,
to soak in light and electric
and let it all shudder through
their vulnerable, velvety bellies.
from my kitchen window
suspended above the ridge
i see dark clouds in the distance
and can’t find the rainbow.
the blue sky weeps.
it’s just that old devil
knocking his wife around
again.
i woke up
next to you
and you kissed me
and said,
“let’s go get you
a coffee
and a cigarette.”
one of the first nights
in our new found
temporary home.
we watched
fireworks
off the balcony
standing in our
underwear.
after the finale
we walked to the
7 day store
and bought ourselves
ice cream.
it was gone
before
we made it back.
we weathered
our first hurricane
together.
sat outside
under our porch awning
getting drunk
on sailor jerry
and the cheapest wine
we could find.
it ended up
as only a drizzle.
but, boy, what a metaphor.
Ancient memories of ancesters long lost–
progenitors whose form I share and nothing else,
walk with me now beside the sea.
Midnight sea wrapped in sky cold sky,
dark cold as moonless snow.
A rock bound shore where grit-shell broken
sand black sucks insistently at flakes of sole–
droplets of soul that I forget to tell
to Go to Hell! You Don’t Exist!
They mock me, floating phosphene beams of need.
And I know quite well the sea does neither
want nor need pieces of the soul in me.
And I will caste no bread in honor
of the Priests and Nuns who pray
vulgarity virginity for my salvation–
empty pious prayers for grace
which God would freely give away
if I should ask in righteous mind
but don’t.
So walk with me old men, old women,
ancient of days. You’re welcome
for the immortality I carry–
structural remnants of you in me, the only immortality
that I can surely promise–
now will walk footprints
as near to yours as any on this shadow free, cold
night, cold and alone, by the moonless sea.
Beauty,
rake your claws
across my eyes,
break my knees
into right angles
and stow them
beneath a desk –
I’d prick each finger
in madness
to sacrifice
another blank page –
or leave
the chasm filled
by your empty bedside table,
bobby pins
and two pennies,
the two thoughts
I paid you for
(One a murky dream,
the second a recipe
made to the tune of
“You Are My Sunshine”
hummed).
Temptress
Idol
Diva
Divine
I only ask
your hands
for more push.
