Posts for June 25, 2018

 My mind feels like a deck that wasn’t riffled quite right-
The Ace of Spades is here somewhere,
facedown, purposeful, waiting.
Events and images are oddly placed,
inconveniently triggered, questionably true.

Dis-arranged layers with indistinct edges –
the laundry I pile into baskets and forget if it is clean,
dumped out to find a matching sock over and over.
There are gaps, and not just around surgery dates.

These folks that cling to me-I know their handwriting still –
some shard will slip back in at odd moments and prick the veil-
the memories ooze back.

I dream of my mother’s house and panic,
knowing I must wake, struggling to stay asleep
so that I can turn the corner and see her face-
but she stays ahead of me.

I dream of my father as he was, intact but aloof.
Standing, speaking, blue-jean clad, but never facing my way.
On my last visit, he caught my eye and I swore he saw his dream-self there-
I am there but not here he seemed to say.

I ghost through the past and stumble in a clouded present,
and none of it seems real.
I see myself walking ahead as I float above and behind…as I always have.

Like slats on the cart
that hauled condemned
to the guillotine, my rib cage traps me.

The body creaks on.  

Life is damnably hungry, a baby
who pinches and sucks a milkless breast,
will not give in. I count

steps and stops on the ribs
of my death ride.

Fat
Too much 
Too little
More than enough
Clothes
Waiting to be worn
To give them away
Is giving up
For someone else 
Not to wear them
Is selfish
Let them go
She thinks
They are a dream that makes no sense
Being smaller was her father’s wish
Let go
Spend these last moments
Without regret
Without a net
Without reminders
With only care for the coming home.

I
I asked the pane
if I really wanted this–
the window responded
with silence.

II
Somewhere
a window is left open.

III
You could see the cat
clawing up the screen
of the window, wanting
to get in.

IV
A button pressed,
a motor whirs–
the window rolls down.
Hair, still wet from a shower,
dries.

V
The past
is just beyond that glass.
The window is stuck.

VI
Streaks on windows
just need some newsprint
and elbow grease.

VII
These words formed a window
to something only you
can see.

VIII
Does a window
need glass?

First Flight to Layover 

The taxi is one hour,
twelve minutes late.
I call the cab stand .

“I don’t understand
my drivers today.Fate,”
she says. “My power

over them is nil.”
I’ll get back to you.
She does call .

“Car 88 is al-
most there, just a few
minutes, sir. I feel

terrible.” I’m not as mad
as I should be.
but I have missed my flight.

I suppose I can write
this one off as how it is to be,
not expecting how bad

to worse the day will turn.
Luck is with me, it
appears. The cab arrives.

The taxi driver drives
like a bat out of hell. It
is only my concern,

none of his, and then I learn
my flight has been grounded
when I get to the front desk.

I board. After three hours turn
into four. I sit, most passengers sounded
much displeasure throughout. I was impressed

with the young lady in the seat
next to me, reading an ebook,
listening to music on her head phones,

being as silent as I am.

June’s tunic is knitted
with parulas’ rising trills  

hummingbirds’ emeralds and rubies
sequin phoebes’ nest-brown song  

currants purl their tangy accent
against plump black raspberry cables  

Stiches would unravel
without bracts of Deptford pinks  

flirting blades of blue-eyed grass
rinsed in first whiff of sweet clover  

Work bound off by busy cricket song
leaves seams for fireflies’ darting needles  

Late June collar of white-gold sunrise
and hem of latest twilight  

finish tunic before its folding
into next year’s half-full hope chest

Everyday life
makes me happiest.
I’ve learned it’s best, too
when an apron is involved,
ideally the black one
that ties in the back
that’s been washed
until the neck strap is shredding
Ideally too I wear it back and forth
between kitchen and computer,
writing down discoveries
and photographing revelations.
Safe behind the apron shield,
strong and singing toward the screen.

Gateways multitude
multiverse became reversed
subtle body source

Oblique perspective
surreal topography
internal function

Infinite limits
drifting illusions inside
enter internal

white pen,
red letters
“magic wand.”
it broke before i had a chance
to write with it.

what’s it to say about magic?

There’s nothing quite like
sitting in one’s car,
alone,
crying,
because the day is too long
and the stock of donuts too small
and the weight of this depriving realization
as acute as the weight of the earth
on one’s shoulders.