Outdoor Musings
If a butterfly lands on you
quite by accident
can you really say
you’ve caught it?
She likes to go to bed wasted
then nothing can keep her awake
not even the omens of her kitchen
standing five four in cheap glasses
and rolling over in her dreams
Ain’t no drunk like wine drunk
and it makes her want to hold
something warm and soft
talk about how she figured out that
she has nothing figured out
She doesn’t get why I’m scared of bears
just that bears seem like the only thing
larger than her larger than life
but they shake hands(her and the bear)
by a lake in my dream
and make a deal to leave me be
I don’t know what moves
a poem, makes language in space
unfathomed–simple, open, powerful–
toward which I gravitate
common concern manifests
whatever feels honest and specific
to the thousands that receive
more than we publish
occasions resonate in particular
when the story seems surprised
it can love itself–
whatever that may be
So I visit today, or maybe is started yesterday
And the font is all different if I check my poems
to look for comments
I would check out some other poets faster
If the search function worked worth a
But it’s
free and then I think
it doesn’t even process words worth a
and that’s just mean
So I look at myself fonted weird
and was checking my stuff, thanks, Jim,
and then I saw these dates and
I was like wait a minute I’ve
been here since way back in ’16
So, instead of working but just for a minute
because the new job is kind of important
even if I might be thinking about something else,
I send an email to Bronson with a
snip of my ’16 poem list because, yes, I want my
badge. I’ve done this before and he has always sent
me back a nice email saying “it might be another email”
(I’m paraphrasing) and I think no way but I was halfway
through this
poem when I got an email where Bronson had sent me the
email address that my ’16 poems were under and it’s from
a job a used to have how
stupid is that
and asks me “hey, can you prove those are your poems” (I’m paraphrasing)
and I probably can’t unless I can log into that site
which it doesn’t look like I can do so, unless I’m willing to give Bronson my
password that I use for virtually everywhere, here, too, not that he would use it, no
I scan through looking for the word cat, not reading them, but adding
to the tally, reading some, commenting on next to none
because I’m thinking what are those badges for that aren’t dates?
My guess is actual financial support.
Hey, I bought three books
Man, I really want that ’16 medal and a badge
maybe, I dream, they would have to make me a special badge in
honor but I think I should have been thinking “thank you” through half of
this and “bless you, kind sponsors” along with “I’m sorry I haven’t been more participative” I guess I sorta was kinda.
I don’t count my cat poem in the tally
son
take this cold
steel in your warm hands
let me help you
hold it still
(your hands in mine)
block out everything
but your target
let me help you
pull the trigger
(don’t you feel
better)
now you know what it’s like
to be a man
After the opening ceremony of the 2018 World Cup,
lowest-ranked Russia thrashes Saudi Arabia 5-0
in a stadium financed by an oligarch “wallowing in money.”
The coach salutes his scorers, the crowd rises to its feet.
The roar in Red Square intensifies as we turn to commercial.
23andMe pitches, “You may not speak the language
or have visited the country, you may not know their heroes,
but we’re all connected to a World Cup nation through our DNA.”
McDonald’s offers breakfast while we watch.
VW regrets we do not have a ticket, introduces
a cheerful Belgian, Finn, and German who suggest
how we can choose a team to support.
Meanwhile refugees are stranded in the Mediterranean.
Policy is separating children from parents down at the border.
At the stadium, steely-eyed Putin leans over to the Crown Prince
and says, “Hey, what can you do?” hiding a smile.
whenever he pumped gas, he’d whistle a little tune
called it his “gas station song”
always brought a smile
filled up the ol’ Dodge
me riding shot gun
aroma of unleaded tickled my nostrils
hot vinyl seats branded the
back of my thighs
windows down on back country roads
hand fighting the wind,
dancing and surfing over orange lilies and weeds as tall as the truck
8-track tape player spewed out
Neil Diamond – still know every word
and am still an eight-year-old, girl riding shotgun with my Dad when I hear it
he flipped her over
like an egg
a moan and waking
arms surround him
breath on his lips
of welcoming
seek her eyes
her eyes unseen
unseen her face
and yet beguiles
whispering hips
a sleep
a dream
which would it be
how would it seem
asleep alone
a sleep and dream
taste of the morning fare
nothing is said
late ships in passing
over a bed
