Posts for June 5, 2020 (page 8)

it’s nearly eight a.m.
and i rise to the chirping
of the birds and
the sun peaking in
through the window.
when my son rises, too,
i play music, softly,
brew a pot of coffee,
and together, we make
a quiche (he laughs
at the gooeyness of
the eggs, and while
he does the cheese,
i chop the bacon
and onions because
i can’t let him
get hurt). the morning
is beautiful.

it’s ten, and i wake
by myself. i turn a
lone light on and make
oatmeal. the house is
quiet and a loneliness
hangs in the air, but
there is something about
this morning (the storm
clouds in the distance?)
that is beautiful,
too.

Wet black hair slicked smooth,
he’s chunky stuffed into his suit
like a bratwurst and a little damp,
sweat beading his upper lip.
His wide smile comes quick
and only sometimes the rage erupts
as when he speaks with the voice
of the Rio Grande, which declares
it was not designed for drowning
those trying to escape.

Where do we go now?
Choices in all directions
One destination

open your mouth for the gulls to see your gore-striped teeth,

wade the river and tongue the taste of our water’s oar-ripened sweep,

breathe your breaths of our shared air, and peaceful sleep this peace,

for the Nile is a pulse and a vein, and the black earth is the gut of the world,

but know

that though

you were born in bone-skin armor,

and born the bank-king, basking,

i shall take your banks to make my armor,

and i shall climb your tongue like a ladder,

and your skin will not avail you and your jaws will not avail you nor will the acid in your gullet.

more
viewing

more paging
one screenful at a time.

This is especially primitive.
Users should realize

that less provides more
emulation plus extensive enhancements.

quit, instead.
pause after feed.

clear the whole screen.
Do not scroll.

Instead, paint.
multiple blank lines into one.

override values
obtained from any other source.
help.

INTERRUPT

Exit.

Skip forward.

Skip backwards.

Go to the place where started.

Go

Go

Repeat:

MORE options use time.

* Found poem (erasure) from Linux Man Pages.

“My ass would make you a Sund’y face,”
a mid 20th century
bankrupting
jeer

What kills the souls
of two young birds
with one far-reaching
efficient
fallible
stone

Superiority
a monster 
so strong
arrogant
contemptible

Insecurity
a tragedy
personal
merciless
debasing

A grievous calamity

What cures the ass
saves face
generations come Sunday

My colleague, who sat with me at graduation
in full regalia, who joked with me as we walked
through the campus ravine, and was widely supported
for promotion, was charged with murdering his wife.

I saw the family months before she went missing,
seated under the shelter at the department picnic.
His wife and five-year-old are wearing top knots,
their heads bent close together over a plate of potluck,
her cellphone with its recorded fights out of sight.

He is sitting across from them, looking away,
indifferent to the child to whom he has passed
down jug ears. The hand wearing the wedding band
is resting on one knee; the other is cupped on the table.
He left his gloves, knife, and brass knuckles at home.

my clothes are unpacked
my suitcase hasn’t moved from it’s spot
in the dusty attic storage space

the tickets haven’t been printed
I never got my passport updated

on my evening walk I thought I smelled
the airport,
soft chemicals, sweaty clothes,
and too much perfume and cologne

four years
saving,
waiting,
planning,
is too long
not to see family

the ocean stretches between us
and our flight will never cross it.

ON THE ROAD  

The cold rain peppers against the windshield.
and            
                 miles roll out                        
                 behind me.  

The old basset hound
sleeps snugly
in the seat beside me
unaware            
                of the storm                        
                      brewing.  

I watch the road
and think about life life
in the fast lane.
a place            
              not really suited
for lazy dogs
and old men.  

Yet,
we sometimes travel there
just to get a feel
of what it could have been like
long ago
when             
                   both                        
                             were young.  

Tony Sexton  

This physical plane of grit and smoke and
collapsed lungs and burst capillaries and apocalyptic
horsemen with nightsticks and faceless helmets
is less than the reality that I can see

when I close my eyes, the reality of multicultural
open mics of poetry and guitar and drum and kazoo,
the reality of fresh medically-cleared air totally free
and legal for all to breathe all the time forever

and ever yes, the reality of acrylics and water-
colors and oil paints flowing through
the streets instead of blood, the reality of
happy kids eating chicken nuggets but instead

of chicken nuggets it’s carrots and navy beans,
the reality of common-sense politics with
political parties like heavenly bodies in
cloudless skies and all dominated by

the politics of love, the reality of fires only
of the bon variety with dancing around the embers
and yes fire too in our chests, the fire
to speak up and build exactly what we want to see

instead of working around a rotted infrastructure
already in place, the fire to continuously purge
what we think we know in our souls to make room
for the new truths we encounter every single day,

the fire to burn bright enough to lead like
lighthouses, saying here is safety in troubled waters,
here is a soft place to lay your head and rest,
here is where the shadows are kept at bay.