Posts for June 30, 2019 (page 4)

1:27 AM: 3 mile ride in a gold Kia.

Any wild riders tonight?

I didn’t drive for pride yet.

My mom was serving communion there all day, she probably saw more speedos than either of us in our lifetimes.

What’s it like to be a PK?

-He knows the lingo. He must be a PK.-

Eh, not as exciting as it sounds. You have to be on your best behavior but you know behind the scenes we’re all flawed and stay actin up.

Oh we do! My mother’s a minister too.

What denomination?

Pentecostal.

I’ve never seen a woman in a Pentecostal pulpit.

She’s kind of a Pentecostal hero.

Got ya. Aren’t we all?

It must really suck, being a baby.
You know what you want, sort of,
but you can’t talk yet and none
of the Big People seem capable
of figuring it out. And now you’re
cutting teeth, so you just want to
chew on everything. Your little
hand pulls my finger into your
mouth, and I let you chew on it
because I love you, even though
the teeth you already have are
pretty damn sharp and your little
jaws are surprisingly strong. So
when your folks have to go out
for a little while, and the novelty
of sitting on my lap watching
American baseball in London 
begins to wear off, you become
restless. The Negroni  I’ve been
sipping for the last half-hour 
is down to its last half-inch, so
it seems like a good time for
Pops to introduce you to one
of Italy’s best ideas. I dip my
finger in the magical red liquid
and you are on it like Maggie
Simpson on a pacifier. A few 
more dips and slurps and the
parents walk in the back door.
How about you and I just
keep this on the down-low…

In January I howl with wolves
from a black sky
rove among stars
sharp like sparks
from fireworks.
I glaze snow with a pearly
patina.  

When earthworms emerge in spring
I soften like soil
and only those who seek me out
in woods will find violet
and trillium
draped by my beams
like frosted
robes.  

As heat becomes queen
holding court on backs of frogs
on sleek crested heads of birds
I offer relief for strawberry
and sturgeon
as I shimmer in rain
flash with lightning
never pausing
for thunder.  

Then comes autumn when I bless
wheat and corn and kindle
bucks to rush each other.
Beavers build by my light
weaving bracken  
stacking twigs
smudging mud
piling mushroom and fern
for life under a cold sky
astir with my fervid
baying.

When did my body become contested territory

     Never desolate even when unaltered by man

How did my flesh become terrain ripe for domination

     By those possessing no special virtue

Only allowed to own my body when I am crone

There’s a lot I don’t know—
like how pineapples grow.

Who invented the marshmallow 
and spelled it that way? 

Who was first to lie 
a head upon a pillow?

Why is blue blue—
not red?

All answers I can
most likely find.

But not the kind profound—
the synchronistic moment, 
unfounded fear, 
prayers that work

and

Why always salty tears?

Near 17th Street and Lockwood Ridge,
I always look for her in the hard plastic dome

meant for bus riders but home for her
in black high-top sneakers.

She lives there with shopping carts, filled
with clothes, blankets, pillows, over-flowing jumble.

She takes out a thick blue comb and rakes
through long bushy hair, palomino-colored.

A bulky frame fueled to survive the elements–
she must take refuge in the nearby shopping center

for bathroom breaks.  What does
she do if someone takes her place?  I’ve never

seen a confrontation but I wouldn’t bet against her fierceness.
She hides behind an umbrella on sunny days,

drapes herself over the grocery cart at rest.
I see her dozing or staring into the distance.

How many drivers pass by everyday
and how many eyes seek her out as I do?

Sometimes I worry you are just a myth people have told me to get through the night 

a fairytale made for kids much braver than I feel

I wonder if you’ll survive 

whatever I think is about to kill me in the moment.

Please tell me
you still love to pull your car to the side of the road just for a picture of the clouds.

Please tell me
your tongue is still as sharp as the knives you’ve pulled out of your own back.

Please tell me 
your wild hair of red still refuses to be tamed 
and that’s exactly why you love it.

I hope
you still find inspiration when you’re around rivers and underneath a rain cloud that’s seems like it’ll never let up.

I hope
you are always so excited about life and what comes next even when you’re unsure of it all.

I hope
you’re kind
and understanding.

I hope
that you keep holding the door open for the same people who would let it shut in your face.  

I hope
you still write even when it hurts 

I hope
you still write especially when it doesn’t .

I hope
Texas was beautiful 
but I think we both know nothing is as beautiful as coming home. 

I hope
you never lose the love you have found for yourself

or your writing 

or your mountains.

I hope
you never forget the part of you that wanted to live when dying felt like your only option. 

I hope 
you know that I’m working really hard to meet you someday 

and even harder to love you.

19.6.30 (kitchen traps)

No longer will my days
be spent like that gnat,
who crawled into the pinhole
of plastic wrap over a used pesto jar;

seeing a way out, but never finding
an opening in the glass coffin
of my vinegar traps.

Sweet apple cider vapors, wafting
towards me to join the dozen submerged
bodies of myself, who didnt notice
the dish soap burdern of memories,
breaking the surface tension I used
to tread so easily on.

My future incarnations will evolve
to instinctually avoid the stench.

I went to get my flower seeds
I always do plant late
Lo and behold wouldn’t ya know
I chose the wrong date

Lowe’s got rid of all their seeds
Just threw them all away
Claimed that they wern’t selling well
On those rainy days – 

They didn’t give the seeds away
or mark them down half price
They threw them in the dumpster
Oh, that was not so nice

Think of what they could have done
With all the seeds they had
Fed the hungry, blessed the poor
make some lives less sad

Planted flowers on roadsides
given seeds to schools
Put packets in food-bank boxes
Anonymously, played it cool

But they’re a corporation
Don’t see the things they lack
like  A c c o u n t a b i l i t y 
when Jesus Christ comes back.

                       For the LOVE of money is the root of all evil.
                       1 Timothy 5

I am left-leaning. It shows on my 
sole, both left and right.

Sometimes compensation is good. A creative job
could have been the death of creativity.

The Irish are maudlin for a reason. All tribal people
are if they live in an occupied land.

There are people within me I’m just getting
to know. One has a six-foot wingspan. Sometimes
he shows his hand.

Tea is a social drink. It takes time
to steep. If I like you, I will 
invite you for a second cup.

In 1950, I wanted to be
an astronaut. There were none
back then. I had a paper doll
of one. That was good enough.

Ten years later, I was being
what others wanted. I am still
working on the difference.

Loyalty is tricky to negotiate. 
Old friends are my ballast;
experience, my chart.

Old age, like wisdon, is an underwater
bubble. I reach, although I can’t quite grasp it.

I’m still puzzling out the tenth truth.
It has to do with poetry.