Interlock
Nestled like a puzzle finally returned to form,
Growing flowers between arched backs and warm embraces.
Gloomy June succumbs to the bombast,
But not for another night.
Boiled buckwheat done
ice bath cooling noodles now
dashi broth simmers
Blanched leaves of bok choy
bean sprouts cabbage placed close by
fresh pickled onions
Sesame seeds toast
sweet and sour umami
taste buds tingle soon
The last of
the last of
the last…you
get the idea.
I am struggling
with words – right
order, right sound,
right meaning…
The last of
the last of
the last…No
mo’ PoMo
but I know
it’s a plateau
plateau
up the side
right order
right sound
right meaning
don’t look down –
go on.
The ending of one month
To the beginner of another
The same journey
But up ahead
Are brighter days
A few potholes in the road
And greenery all around.
The sun setting
The music playing
Put your hand out the window
And bask in the feeling
Of continuing,
Being who you want to be,
Being free,
And living
Like that road
Is a dead end…
A female cardinal splashes
in the birdbath, fluffs, perches
on its rim, takes sips, springs
up to the dying, drying limb,
repeats, until satisfied, flies away,
a sudden flash of red pursuing.
Seven weeks have passed.
I don’t sense your presence,
yet continue our reflections
on death, then what. Perhaps
you are back as a cardinal.
Have a mate who sticks around,
does not take to the sea, protects
but does not crowd, desirous
even on a molting hair day.
Monogamous for life, unlike
two others. I can hear you
‘laughing so hard,’ you’d write.
So maybe not. Be what you may.
Just be, longer.
When startled in alleyways
by ill will’s ski-masked gaze
a loaded grudge pointed at me
a cutting remark held against my throat
hearing that old scaly subterranean hiss
your equanimity or your life
my dove eyes will smile while
the Pentecost of poetry descends
and I recite the juste mot that comes
from my unleashed trusting tongue
even as Stephen before the pellet of stones.
When skies expand like Superman
busting out of a telephone booth and
I’m called upon to commentate
elaborate and communicate
the ways and means love conquers hate
I’ll hand the Muse my effusive pen
let her write whatever she likes –
the flight of her writing is actually sighting
and siting the seat of the Sun.
I dove
head-first
blind
unsure
ignorant, really.
I took
a leap
and did
what I thought
best.
I don’t want to carry it in my heart
That Sunday afternoon on Crooked Creek
Pat my brother and Bobby my cousin
Gather walnuts from the dry stream bed
Throw the black husks onto the bank
My job is to put them into a feed sack
And keep dragging it along as I fill it up
I want to be a big like they are
But I become stained from the resin
Hands clothes shoes – all of me it seems
This solo memory of the three of us
The way they come to me when I cry
Take me to the shop next to Bobby’s house
Show me the magic of mechanic’s soap
So soon life would deem them dead
In ways the young died then: car & war
Both twenty-two when they are gone
If I do not think of them for a while
They’re suddenly in my field of vision
The picture of them holding my clean hands
As we head back out through the stubble
And fetch that lumpy bag of nuts
give one hundred percent
to the point of nearly passing out
take on the role of mother
for those when no one else would
in her darkest moments
sick and hurting more than anyone could stand
I have seen her so happy
I have seen her at my worst
giving more than I deserved
I have seen her
Oh, sure, little scapegoat
Let go, let go
White walls
Ivy and hyacinth
Beats wash it off
Whitewashed
So, oh, dear
Let’s go
