Posts for June 24, 2019 (page 2)

We search for salvation
in all the wrong places:
behind screens and in
our offices, ignoring
honeybees and ants
and hundred-year-old
trees. But, it’s in the
droplets of dew hanging
from edges of lush leaves,
and warm colors cutting
across the sky at sunrise
and sunset; in rich soil
spilling out from beneath
the leaf litter and all the
critters who live under
there. It’s in long walks
through the forest to
soak it in, and realizing
the fungi have figured it
out – break everything
down back into dirt.

His eyes were not the blue of his mother’s
     or of his father’s
Not the blue of the January sky at dusk
     or of the sky reflected in the snow bank
Not the blue of Lake Michigan near Sleeping Bear
     or of the cave-fed swimming hole in Tennessee
Not the blue at the heart of a bonfire
     or of a gas stove’s flame
His eyes were not the blue of an indigo bunting
     or of the morning glory by the porch
     or of his dog’s collar
     or of his coffee mug

Zoom in
Select the pixels from his picture
Search for a match on the palette
The color does not exist
He took it with him when he left

i woke up wanting a banjo i say to the blender
“shut up” it says “and just fuck me with your avocados already;
bless me with your banana peels”

but i don’t want to be assaulted. or insulted.
i’m tired of innuendo, insinuation, and intimidation
“how bout some concrete” i ask, setting the blender on the curb.

i hand grind the last 27 grams of good whole bean coffee
pour 12 ounces of boiled water into the french press
a pack of truvia, a teaspoon of heavy cream into a tea cup…

two scrambled eggs
dry toast and turkey bacon…
and the avocado, with soft eyes, just shakes its head at me.

he chilled more easily, so she crocheted a throw to keep him warm in his favorite spot by the window in his office. She hated doing needle work, but there was no way she’d let somebody’s loveless factory labor take care of him. He would finger it while reading at random from the piles of books on the wooden drum turned side table, at times hold a corner near his nose as if breathing deeply would capture some residue of her touch. Back from the hospital without him forever now, she stands in that white room, crying. She thinks she should straighten, a thing she denied herself when he was here. Instead, she takes the saucer and its half-cup of cold coffee, washes and dries them carefully, returns the pair to their accustomed spot by his books on his drum by his chair. Perhaps some other day, far away from now.

Help wanted ad on a telephone pole beside a black hole not far from
home.
Ready to hire based on a desire to get my house in order

Things just get so messed up sometimes. It is what it is.

Platitudes as tithe to the gods of learning to get my shit together.

I heard that if you count each petal on a dandelion head–perfectly, and on the first try–you will learn the coordinates of your next date with Destiny.

But tear just
one
tender floret
and she won’t return your texts, or calls, if your thirst brings you that far for slaking.

I tell myself the difference between knowing a thing and –knowing– a thing is seven cents less than what it takes to run a cycle at the galactic laundromat &

delicate
is not just a setting on the washing machine

sometimes you put up with having a heart all day long
and all you get out of it
is that you’ll have to have a heart all day long tomorrow
too

Lift your words up to the sky
String them like banners across the view
of everyone nearby. Proclaim
from the rooftops, if necessary, that God is alive,
and on His throne, forever.
The setting sun will not diminish
your exuberance, today, you will dance
through the night
in celebration.

                   after Frank Asch

What
do
you
want
for
your
birth-
day?
What 
do
I 
want
for
my
birth-
day?
a hat–
a hat?
Yes.
The hat
that
sits
on
the rim
of
the
moon.

19.6.24 (Takin’ It to the Streets)

Approaching the anniversary of my last shave,
harnessing its raw powers by deciding to “Turn It Loose”,
I’m finally starting to grow into my moustache.

Recently, I’ve begun listening to The Doobie Brothers
on bike commutes to work, “Takin’ It to the Streets”
while eyeing every four-door sedan, waiting
for one to pull out & put me on the “Losin’ End”.

My blue twenty-four gear “Wheel of Fortune”
barely keeps my #DadBod from growing,
a first new pant size in eight years,
not in the direction one hopes;

which led to the forced “Carry Me Away” pile
of eight nine-dollar department store shorts,
bought on sister’s discount cause its ten percent.

Pinching pennies, hoping one day to make it to “Rio”,
like the  whole reason I started bike rides to work
was to save up vacation money “For Someone Special”;

a young skinny love, that burned black holes in my mind
for “It Keeps You Runnin’” along perpendicular grids,
The “8th Avenue Shuffle” I recreate with every pretty face
cause it worked so well with a that pretty face.

Then Michael McDonald’s voice stops,
I’m pulling in the driveway, heavy humid huffing:
I turn 30-years-old in three months, clueless
just like when I first gulped 20-years-old breath.