Summertime
The day is
sweltering
and my dress
clings
to my curves
and
hollow spaces.
A cool breeze
gently tugs
at my hair
and I hear
thunder
in the distance.
The day is
sweltering
and my dress
clings
to my curves
and
hollow spaces.
A cool breeze
gently tugs
at my hair
and I hear
thunder
in the distance.
shrugging the cloak of a past
off my shoulders
unclenching the fist of futures
imagined full of tricks or treats
yesterday is a forest fire
tomorrow is the edge of a cliff
today is a picnic basket
carrying everything I need
The best pie crusts are made on clear, crisp snow days
when a winter sun shines white through the windows
They require much dusting of everything with flour
(don’t worry if it gets on the floor)
then some kneading and rolling and deft folding and unfolding
(give your baby brother a dollop of dough to hold)
Now, watch how to crimp the edges
Join the knuckles of both hands as your mother,
who pleats the dough into art,
But if you are not by birth her daughter,
and your hands are squat, your fingers too fat to fit,
when it’s your turn to try, use a fork dipped in ice water
and, like silly birds’ stamping their feet on the snow-covered railing,
score the dough, make your mark, you are no less
Poplars at the River Epte by Claude Money, 1891
(an eckphrastic poem)
The tripled trucks arise to sweep the sky
of alabaster blue. A flock of leaves,
forever stilled mid-flight, this last reprise
from slow decay has somehow caught his eye —
the laden brush, the smear and daub, reply.
The artist sees just where the water weaves
among those airy cages, creaking eaves
that ripple in the river flowing by.
This heat’s not quenched. The sap still climbs to shake
the wind’s blue feathers. Purple catkins sway
beneath the trembling stars, a moon opaque
as milk. The trees still glow with flames that play
off drowning suns. They smolder as they break
into a thousand brush-strokes, ray by ray.
Barren Landscapes loom
Faroe Islands soft whisper
Guides the artists hand
Demonic daydreams
mirror horrific drawings
displaying madness
Webs of delusion
craft ghostly conversations
around dark tables
The hour ticks closer
a bleak tension falls over
an artists lost mind
Time
doesn’t require of us
any
single
thing
Press your body, into the yielding earth
Let your tongue do as it might & touch
in the shady soil
spores
of the life you keep on not having left behind
It almost spins itself now, the dial to
*the feeling of sand slipping out beneath your toes*
dryer buzz & door-to-door & have you heard the news & zero installation
There
Cracked in the amber of that moment you don’t talk about, a fern
growing 360 million years from the trauma horizon of your event, a
fern.
Light gets in.
Even so many intrusive things like a bit of summer sun.
It’ll keep growing back.
You know that now, right?
Patch it with mantras&
glitter&
cocktails&
performative vulnerability&
tape
&
there’s a couple ways you get out of this
You can spend the next three lifetimes waiting under moonlight for this terrible moment to grant you single pointless wish
Or, upon finding an old lighter that belongs
to a limestone mold of a lesser you
set fire to frond
&hope for rain.
Tramp stamp
Road to heaven when you
Turn her over
You want a Kool
Vantage will do
Let’s discuss religion
You buttress me
Foundational with movement
Chug a chug a chug
Uphill, that’s why I’m praying
I’m at the top
You’re almost there
Let’s sip bourbon and watch TV
After. Oh my God. New morning
No it’s not but
You’ll do better later
And I nod
This dissonance
is consistent and prolific
stretching beyond the pacific
due to these indignant thoughts of existence.
is 9-5 realistic
or am I just ignorant?
Hi, I’m an idealist,
High, when I’m the chillest.
Society creates the tempest –
increasing cognition-
to change my position
and live out my visions
of sublime contentment.
yet, here I melt in muffled resentment.
