It’s the single
wych elm among acres
Of barley fields.
It’s the jerk of inertia,
Bernouille,
Inbound car suctioning oitbound car
Passing too quickly.
It’s the distant windmill
Stoically spinning it’s
Own turbulence.
It’s the balding Frenchman
Lifting my bag before
His own with his one hand
Not holding his own child’s.
It’s the child
Letting go
To wave
Au Revoir.
Everyone wants my opinions
And my interests
So they can formulate a marketing strategy
To change my opinions
And my interests
Into theirs
I speak lies
And nod my head as if I agree
As usual
they never realize
Until way too late
for Simple Minds
Your magnolia mouth opens
to call my name.
Recognition is rebellious
a package tied
with leather ribbons
delivered on the schoolyard
of troubles and doubts.
I dance alone, recall
tender things during detention
a tweed classroom
drunk on the wine of lipstick
attitude and injustice.
Outside, cars shift
between us, pulling us left
pulling us right.
Rain keeps falling down
down
down
I was just being heart-land,
was possum dead and laughing grief.
Just dead enough; gone to seed.
Being and gone are low flung.
Heart, laughing, to low among them.
Land, grief, seed, flung; them listmakers!
flimsy little
feathered word webs
insufficient containers
for thoughts that rend
metal & screel violence
attempting assertion
while personhood
fades
–a found poem
Louis lured them to his court,
corrupted them with gambling,
exhausted them with dissipation,
made their destinies dependent
on their capacity to please him.
His reign lasted 72 years.
i’m starting to believe
there’s a hillbilly hex on this house.
ask the appliances.
there are two toasters talking mean about me
over at the county dump
alongside a sweeper that spits dirt and vitriol
and the gushing, gossiping, coffee pot
and the groaning, complaining, water heater.
go ahead and ask them.
maybe they’ve heard about who hates me.
i’m starting to believe
the bad luck must be supernatural.
i must’ve left stray hair somewhere
and a granny witch scooped it up
and did a bit of bane work
pointed in my direction.
it’s been a broke down year
and there ain’t a fix in sight
and i’m starting to believe
i had it coming.
The sound of rain
in falling,
the sound of it
through leaves,
the sound of it,
hitting the street
and bouncing up,
are the perfect sounds
for a poem
about the robin
standing in green grass,
soaked as it intensifies
as if knowing
the feel of it
will call forth
earth worms.
