Windbags
Don’t cry
When hubristic decisions
Race back to haunt you.
Screaming through your dreams,
Perpetual reminders
That maybe you should better yourself.
But you’re so busy
Playing the victim
To see that you held the knife
The whole time.
The way of Kentucky
Is tried and true and tested tradition
The way of Kentucky is get the hell out of my way
The way of Kentucky is quietly beautiful
The way of Kentucky is water flowing under limestone and sultry svelte black basketball players
The way of Kentucky is seeing how many times you can get arrested before you’re 18 and have to get married
The way of Kentucky is rekindling a fire from the one ember of coal,
The way of Kentucky is never saying you can’t be doing that for too long.
These 80 yr old women have guns, fly airplanes.
The force of the female is strong in the overpowering, unending orgasm of Kentucky.
a rhyme remembering dreams,
a night with loosened seams,
view to an arete
past my gendarmes,
(I need, we need
new mem’ries
in your arms)
a pair of lines
that, parallel, would lay
a coupled culpability,
a positive capability,
that Keats, in all his reason
would be
found and lost
in magick
and our song.
Energy,
something
I rarely
have.
Health problems
and
depression
stifling,
suffocating
every
cell,
atom,
molecule,
everything.
But,
even though
I
don’t
have a lot
of
energy,
I believe
I’m
beginning to
feel it
elsewhere.
Not in
people
as much
anymore,
my intuition
a
flame,
extinguished
along
with my
hope
of becoming healthy,
but I
feel
energy
in
objects.
Not in
books
or
a pencil,
but in
seashells
and crystals.
It’s an
odd
feeling,
a new
feeling,
it feels like
a flower
in
my chest,
its blossom’s
size
changing
with the strength
of the
energy.
I hope
this feeling
stays.
Hope…
it’s
quite nice
to
see you
again.
cheeks balloon
with water
lips purse
to hold it in
one drip escapes
pauses
on her chin
the novelty
of swigging water
from an old
vanilla extract bottle
crinkles
her chocolate eyes
with concentrated
delight
wisps of hair
curl
across her brow
shiny flairs
of sunlight
grassy lounge
back against a rock
fairy child
savors
her nectar
alight
in the moment
it was one of those roads
that felt like the people
living in those leaning
dust-covered buildings
had given up on finding
that real home
where a soul
can take root in that
yellow-white line
that spirals out of the center
of the earth
instead, they settled
and let themselves rot
doing a daily grind
to make their daddies proud
saying things like
“When the kids take over this place”
but none of us really stayed
because we would not allow
their slow death
be handed over
in a soulless hollow
where monsters
wore the masks
of
grand/father
grand/mother
uncle and aunt
or neighbor
so we let their
dreams and memories
stagnate
like that thick water
in the middle of those hot
dog days
An old gas station
In the middle of the night
Deniece Williams on the radio
Shaking my chocolate milk
While shuffling my feet
And singing to the cashier
These little moments
Are what make me feel
Like I’m not wasting my life
And they make me feel
Like I’m really breathing
Arising from the street outside
Our son’s flat in Queens Astoria,
Your gentle shake brings me up
From deep water to the silence
of the resting world. Then a low growl
Grows into the full snarl of life’s viscous
Game. This is not Ditmars Boulevard
But Dividing Ridge Road where
In the garden below our sleeping
Window our stalwart dogs corner
A masked thief in the cabbage patch,
They force him to the open ground
Of emerging corn, whence the mortal
Struggle turns into a quarter hour
Of horror. Too late for intervention
The fight ends in the stillness of death
