Posts for June 11, 2018 (page 5)

Good to know your . . .
Come over to my . . .
Don’t lose your . . .
That is my . . .
Things in . . .

Place has a space, defined 
With rules, solid, and stable.
It doesn’t splay itself willy nilly
All around rootless, with wobbles.
It lets you sit when the music stops.

Let me wrap myself again in some clear space,
Cries the refugee cast into an unhinged world 
That drove him from the root and blessing of place. 
There is that song that sings, ‘Somewhere there is a . . . ‘
Would that the world would sing it in new found harmony. 

Measure twice, cut once
Never quite seems to save me
From multiple trips

I took a four hour bath in the ocean,
so I don’t need one today.
I sprayed all the sand out the corners,
so I think I’m just gonna stay
here in this bed
with a bird a singing
songs like Elvis
or funky like Rick James.
Kids are playin
Something called “weejee”.
“Say hello to ol Rick James!”

I’m feeling all good
and I still ain’t bought no beer!

I wanna go watch a dolphin jump.
I might call up Captain Mike.
He’s gotta big ol boat in the water,
And all you gotta do is pay
bout 15 bucks.
That times 5.
Then add some for the kids.
That’s a hundred bucks
“Oh hell, let’s go!”
Everything’s a hundred bucks round here!
Back home we got nothing
but a damned ol gar,
and I never seen him jump.

And please remind me,
to go pick up some beer.

Later I’m gonna go eat
Some kind of swimming beast.
A water spider or a sea snake
It’s gonna be a big ol feast.
Red sea spiders
are served with butter,
and you don’t even know the price!
“It’s seasonal”, they say
Well it’s tourist season,
So you know it won’t be nice!
“Here’s a hondo, girl!
Keep the change.
We got a new prez, now!”

“Let me stop over here!
You know what we need!”

I’m laying on the beach, drinking beer.
It ain’t in a glass bottle, so I guess it’s cool.
I know it’s cold as ice,
And the view out here, it’s super nice!
Them ocean girls!
Whoa, look out!
I could say so much
but better not say none!
The sun gives me
the third degree.
But it feels good,
cause the ocean breeze!
And I’m drowning!
In the sea!
In this view, in this can!
Lordy me!
I look like a sea spider!
I was going for tan!

I think I’ll pass out right here.
God bless this nation,
and God bless this beer!

Feel the wet air fleck your face.
This highway is young; you are much younger. 
It’s easy to keep driving

cuz time has no place here:
the finned dinosaur car
still shiny and chrome like 1957,
the boxy 80s Toyota truck, and you,
all here together at seventy miles per hour. 

In winter, dormant trees look like they’ve burnt.
In spring and summer, we blast away millinae
of granite and limestone rock. 

In the gas station, a worker said, “It comes
off in layers. Its as easy as pulling

a hot knife 
through a loaf of bread.”

Photographs store details
Not seen at quick glance.
Allowing for time to percolate
Through the layers of sediment.

Perhaps to water a flower
Of creativity,
Spurred by
Amazing creation.
Of nature.

The process of capturing
Details, echoing
Creation itself.

Time to step back
And declare it good.
I am well-pleased.

The Girl by the Fireplace

             “One may tolerate a world of demons
                  for the sake of an angel.” 
                                           –      Madame de Pompadour

Would I had windows, or mirrors, or time
pieces giving access to the whole—the whole
you, the whole story, every part spinning
the silver gears of your life—the ones fresh
and burnished gold from the perfect flames
of youth—or the ones at the hearth, in the middle
where we are met <tick tock, tick tock>,
each moment fleeting, each degree clicking
<tick tock, tick tock> from that instant onward
with teeth that chew the passage of days, of years,
of a lifetime,
where I could not be there. 
                                                        If I could be there,
again, the first time—rather than broken, as I am
in communication, where we are—I would
throw open the passageways, every one,
and slay the robotic machinations
of man and mind, beset by time,
and the wasting away
of all we could
ever, truly
have. 

           <tick tock>
               <tick>     
         <tock>

 <tick>

I woke up two-dimensional this morning.
It happens from time to time, I wouldn’t worry about it.

Sometimes I’m ink on paper, others I’m blank. It’s not that important, they don’t look too closely.

It’s really not as bad as it sounds. Nobody expects much from a cardboard cutout, so you don’t have to worry about small talk, and eye contact is entirely optional.

They may recognize you tomorrow though, so keep that in mind if you have to keep up appearances.
“I could’ve sworn I saw him yesterday, but now it looks like he has bones.”

You’ll save a ton on food, however a good umbrella is a must. At least a jacket, anything to keep the rain out. A wet napkin doesn’t exactly thrive on the sidewalk, you know?

Occupying a single plane in space is easier than it looks, anyone can do it!
Just remember you’ll wake up with air in your lungs tomorrow, and rent due on the first.

Found Rhymes, a Tease

No one taught me how to write
lines that will not offend you
when my feelings are laid bare.
Poetry is existence.
It was existence for Rilke, Whitman,
Sexton, and Williams who danced
naked in his room, and confessed
his understanding that in dancing
alone in his poem, he let the world
know he was being true
to an unfettered desire.
Reading his poem, the world might
realize that he could attest,
make a difference,
no longer be invisible.

Perhaps you, my favorite, in making visible
the thrusting pressure of your breasts,
made a statement, almost an insistence
that you are aware of the difference you make,
stretching backward over your seat to write
a tease, a poem for my eyes, a poem of fire
like Williams ignited in himself. I see you
and you watch me in my small world
of words, writing across my eyes, prancing.
You stretch backward again until you have nearly undressed
youthful shoulders, untanned breasts. You glance
at me, standing yet behind you. I wonder how Whitman
would have written himself into that moment of coexistence.
No doubt he, writer of all subjects, would dare
use free verse, a song to himself, a song for you
and the world. Poets, alone in their words, have taught me how to write.

Recipe for Summer Relaxation

Remove the thunderstorm created the night before. 
Sprinkle remaining rain generously
Over early sunrise coreopsis and blue delphinium.
Gently fold  in songs of the cardinal, gnat catcher, and wren.
Allow ingredients to settle into your soul as the sun rises,
Bake in a warm heart filled by the Holy Spirit.
Share with others.

Turned—
a blind worm
after rain
drowned despot
of mineral & soil
& bad earth
turned
to good dirt
washed away