Posts for June 12, 2020 (page 6)

Famished foodies rave about Noodle
Nirvana’s fresh

mangoes, handmade zucchini
noodles, crisp

smell of lime and lemongrass — but who
gives a rat’s ass? I nestle

into El Rio Grande, housed in an old
Hardees, where mariachi

polkas and corridos twist
in the air like ghost

lovers striding the tango to the trumpet, that
gleamer, and five thumping

strings of the little vihuela. It’s not just
the dangling chili

pepper lights, tissue paper
roses, rainbow serape, or bull

piñata, Roberto remembers my Chori
Pollo and coaxes me into fried

ice cream, while I crack my new
journal and scratch poems.

press my lips to your neck.
fingertips trace patterns on your skin.
hands find the small of your back.
look at you, for a long time.
set you free–
the prison of
love and hate.
release the cruel tether
and fly,
the sun
before you.

The ex shall conform to volume of Guidelines

Prepare ex by taking the following actions:

Suppress writing prompts and informational messages.

Ignore and assume the type incapable.

On any system, it shall be an error to specify more than a single option.

Determine the interpretation of single behavior, the classification, and the detection of boundaries.

ex shall not write or text.
ex shall behave.

Otherwise:
all input shall be discarded.

the effect shall be as if the ex was nonexistent.

—
Found poem (erasure) from Linux Man Pages
Original text at:
https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/ex.1p.html

ten years
later
and i just
found out
i’ve been
fighting
the wrong 
monster 
all along.
i am
so tired
of  being your
savior
i just want
to be your
god.

I drink green tea in the morning
tomorrow is already yesterday
I’ll never get that sliver of time back
each ticking moment is a heartbeat

What day is it
I blink and yesterday is tomorrow
there is an ache buried in between the seconds
the clock hands are hammers

How subtle the passage of time
as one breath bleeds into another
the thunderous smashing of moments
today is just an alternative to yesterday

I blink and another week rolls by
a gray fog like an early morning mist
thinking about the way the weeks blend together
I start the day with green tea

Pine Mountain Cemetery XI
A Lamb’s Tale

Lambs on a tombstone make one cry.
Beneath the fleecy innocence rests
A child missed for years untold.

But not all lambs tell of grief and pain.
Look at the one black stone there left.
The lamb-drawn urn tells a funny tale.

Little Ed crossed an unknown field
Searching for a path to home again.
Sun long set left shadows long, dark.

There. Right behind him he heard a sound,
Scared, he yelled loud and long for someone
Tall to come carry him far from the monster

Ready to grab him and eat him whole.
“Why little one look behind us, lost as you, baby
Lamb, thinks you the monster and he the meal.”

Three years is mighty young to create a myth
That lasts until the man is grown and gone. Lambs
Were always his tease, made him blush and grin.

You’d think his prissy wife might spare him
One last swipe at the fear filled night across
The meadow, under the cliff, far from home.

But no she knew that his fright marked
Him as one of them in a way no one else did.
Walking through we all need a good story.

Good myths hold the clan together, or did
Until more died than were sprouted to pass
Tales from tongue to memory and back again.

The things I brought home as keepsakes – 

The bleached-white of 

A sand dollar

A shard of coral

A piece of bone

An empty claw 

A discarded shell 

A shed scale

A lost tooth 

A persistent attempt to use death as rememberqnce for a day when

The waves swayed us both

coral and fish and 

sunbleached hair floating in a cloud 

Moving with the slow rise and fall 

Of an ocean’s warm breath 

Together 

In the quiet blue water

We were
vibrantly

Beautifully 

Alive

Gene Autry owned the 
Los Angeles Angels 
for 36 years.
I also know that’s 
Greenland 
is the world’s largest 
island,
and that the 
Lone Ranger 
had a best friend named 
Tonto. 
He rode a horse called 
Silver. 
I never forget these things
because of 
you. 

I’ve watched you 
pilot planes 
from your 
home office,
you can operate a 
ham radio 
better than 
anyone, probably. 
You tell stories 
about me 
that I can’t even
remember. 

You’ve given your 
grandchildren
the best pieces of
yourself.  
I wouldn’t be 
me
without 
them. 

I’m writing this to
you
so that you can have a piece of 
me too. 
I want you to know 
it’ll always be 
yours. 

PS I love you, Pop Pop. 

In the early days I would beg for traces of you.
You obliged my yearnings with a hummingbird hovering
above the crimson geranium on the porch- a first!
My orchids waved with no breeze as I paid bills 
at the kitchen table.
I am always under the watchful eyes of Clancy
our therapy dog who crossed over to an emotional 
support role instinctively knowing the need.
Following instructions from you I’m sure.
The day after we scattered your ashes in the waters of Maui
you gave me a magical journey as I snorkeled with a
special green sea turtle.
Your voice fills my ears when I am most unaware.
Special songs suddenly pop from the radio.

I still ask for signs and got one that stays.
Your distinctive flared nostrils grace Jaxson’s face.
He is the grandson you never met. The one born 
sixteen months after.
My heart leaps every time.