Posts for June 15, 2019 (page 4)

Drenched rocks laced with slick green;
little rivulets of gem water
flowing, forming swells in blushing sand. 
Then fine white and aqua, an enclave between
deeper pools, their palms beckoning the sun,
holding it, mottling the surface.

As I wade along the shore, a woman steps
in my sight, bronze skin dark
among the surrounding pale forms   
Her hair is like corn silk, grey and rushing; 
I cannot see a face.
A being of such lightness is a rarity
this must be why travelers are welcome,
always bathed and rested.

Because who knows which deities
walk among men?

Some part of me wants to say
come get me.

I’m ripe, ready,
done enough solitary

for a lifetime,
so ready to turn to someone

comfortable driving the car.
Startling how meteor-fast

my facade of independence
melts away like butter,

surprising even me.
But truth serum would make me confess

I probably value a room of my own
more than any wedding.

Your doctor has run out of ideas for a diagnosis. He’s trying to take treatments off the table, ordered one last test, a long shot, so he can list possibilities he doesn’t have to pursue.

The sonographer does some deep sea diving, your body a submarine emitting silent communications. Clicks record every surface to show the structure and movement of the liver, gallbladder, pancreas, kidneys, bile ducts, and aorta, the fixtures of your ife.

The good news would be that the plunge finds nothing. We still wouldn’t know what causes your symptoms. Discovering some abdominal mystery would be another kind of news. A diagnosis could then inform treatment. We await the results.

I’ve never felt this feeling.
This feeling,
Of utter loss,
And confusion.
What am I supposed to do.
Scream at the universe?
Saying it’s not fair?
Why. Why did this happen?
Take your anger out on others?
Let them feel your pain.
Do you cry,
Do you laugh,
Do you move on,
Do you believe.
What am I supposed to do?
I don’t know what to do.
Its never struck so close to home.
Loss.
Its everywhere.
You think,
It can’t happen to me,
It won’t happen to me
It happens to others.
Then it hits,
And your helpless,
Powerless.
I never thought,
This would happen to me.
I never knew this feeling.
I’ve never been so confused.
It happens,
I know.
But not to me.
I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know what to do.
But what I do know,
Is your in a better place.
I hope your happy.
I hope you find a better world,
Than this.
I never thought this would happen.
Not to me.
Not now.
I don’t know,
If I yet believe it.
I just hope,
That you finally find peace.

she needed protecting from:
opinions,
words she deemed “offensive”,
belief in God,
belief in right and wrong,
belief in anything

other than that she is
an ape descendent
capable of changing
the climate of a planet   

she needed protecting  from:
expectations,
accountability,
consequences 

she was oh so very fragile:

all who were different from her–
all who dared to not tow her line:
bigots, racists,
homophobes, fascists,
sexists, etc., etc.,
etc., etc.

she would cover her ears when they spoke,
retreat to her safe space,
lob grenades

free speech was allowed
only if
your speech
was like
her speech.

express a different view–
prepare to be labeled
(see above)
and banned,
maybe–assaulted.

she had many friends, every one–
just like her.

individuality was not a word
in her dictionary. 

she had her baby removed from  
temporary housing
–nine month lease–
piece by piece.

she was taught to cling to
the obvious lie:
the torn limbs and crushed skull
were her body–
not a now-dead person,

who would have had a name,
a journey,
a life,
a purpose 

and  
who may have been
just
like
her.

My
favorite
thing
about
sleeping
is
the
falling
bit
in 
the
beginning.

Where the mountains meet
In the tree tops
In a tunnel
Over the road

Where the day
Is as the night 
Is as the summer
In the snow

Time and I stand still
Under thick leaves 
Unaware
Of the growing storm.

again

& gods, if it ain’t
a beautiful one—

teenage sun like a boy
at a middle school dance

sticking to his side
of gymnasium sky,

eager trees nudging
his elbows

with whispers
like the wind,

“You got this!”
He blushes pink

behind clouds—
a couple racing, below

the hours and years
to memory moment.

DJ Poet uncrosses his legs
crossing his fingers.

Exhibit A, October 1967
The park is crowded, but all eyes are on a woman, seventeen, still in high school, she and the flower held as offering and option in her outstretched hands already a threat to those in power, enough that men at most two or three years her senior form a line to block her yet lean away as if the flower could kill, could somehow erase their crisp, green uniforms and ill-fitting steel helmets, could beat their rifles with fixed bayonets into things of real use and value. Having placed the potent flower in a rifle’s barrel, knowing it can never stop lead on its own, she steps back, gaze unfaltering, spreads her arms wide as though presenting a sister’s embrace, as if preparing to welcome bullet or blade, opening her life to welcome what comes next.  

Exhibit B, February 1968
These streets are emptier, a calm space in the fighting occupied by soldiers watching the scene unfolding, a man in his later thirties, an officer in flak vest and stained fatigues, with a pistol in his outstretched right hand shining beneath the hot sun, the lines drawing all eyes along the short barrel to another, barely younger man, hands bound, shirt and short pants muddied by dust and fear, who grimaces, shuts his eyes tight, leans his head away from the bullet that will arrive by the time the next, post mortem frame is taken and he sprawls gracelessly on concrete. Having carried out the sentence, the first man holsters his pistol, turns, and moves on to the next act of war.

On the porch