Meanwhile in Kentucky News…
Nine thousand barrels
of bourbon damaged and lost
eclipsed the caged kids.
Nine thousand barrels
of bourbon damaged and lost
eclipsed the caged kids.
I like that number
That little beauty on the boat
Did you see Queenie? Wasn’t she great?
And how many eggs she brought in
And how much her hair nets cost
And how much syncopation in the air
We’d always been on the level
wooed on cots and porches
A notorious rake
A lovely surprise
Use the heel of one hand; interlace the other fingers and pulse to any Queen song, keeping elbows tucked straight; then, breathe twice for
rescue.
It feels like you can catch the wind,
you say, to my right, your arm out the window
on a hundred-and-three-degree night. We expand—I feel you
press against me for the first time in a month. And my left already knows
the distance, the way the city streets dance across flat, Texas terrain,
ghost lights tracing leather, the shrinking
space between us
you can’t catch the wind,
I think, my arm out another window, my lips merely parting, stilled
by the lines of your neck in low, sporadic light, my hand
and the car slicing night and heat for a hungry moon;
she swallows the offering, fills her lungs,
holds her breath as we’re driven
home.
She wore it in the morning
photographed boarding the plane in Maryland
to visit brown kids in cages:
“I don’t really care, do U?”
The press flipped out, her spokesperson said:
It’s just a jacket, no hidden message.
She didn’t wear it at children’s jail
where she was modeling compassion.
But deplaning that night, she wore it again
and cameras clicked. She said in 2016:
I always wear what I like
and what is appropriate for the occasion.
Mail order brides blow dog whistles for
the beast-in-chief – it’s required by the warranty.
edged in red-bird song and butterfly wing breeze
splashes abstract patches on stone walk
freshens bee balm’s fuchsia fingers
drops pearls on spider’s web
rinses trees of sun’s dust
stills heat’s storm
lulls my pulse
greens sepia grass
sweetens dawn’s scent
softens mud’s pawprint molds
slakes tin roof’s thirst for sound
rendering rain’s prismed bow nearly moot
doesn’t it feel like we’re sitting in the grass?
1,029 miles apart on wood and asphalt and yeah fuck yeah
it feels like we’re sitting in the grass
kinda got me lol
can I call you daddy? yikes
I try
change the subject skirt the edge
don’t let me know how much you wanna
yeah
translate a poem for you
mordiéndote el labio inferior por mí
just bite your lower lip for me baby
that’s hot
how much flirting do we have to do
before it’s flirting
if we were sitting in the grass
I’d touch your knee
but very lightly
very very lightly
mm
the strangest dream
jelly-like stuff
astonishingly blue beauty
no coerced pattern
life and that’s
enough
fron TO CHERISH THE LIFE OF THE WORLD
selected letters of Margaret Mead
