Posts for June 22, 2020 (page 5)

Jupiter’s moons

The forgotten beauty’s

I try to recall their names

But like the faded photographs

Of the sepia relatives

I can’t seem to recall

Faces mix

Names disintegrate

And I’m left with nothing

But the sunken feeling

That somehow I am forgetting

I open a purple envelope,
misplaced mail—
a postmark:  May 1

I imagine my deck
a lofty mountain peak,
each warm, breezy gust
a violent wind
whipping through the threads
of my invisible down parka,
rifling through hair
unburdened by the fur-lined hat
I carelessly forgot.

I deftly scan the horizon
and see before me
Alpine valleys
unfolding on the other side of
those rooftops,
the pristine mountain springs
disguised as gutter run-off.

My descent looks treacherous;
perhaps I should linger here a while,
sipping hot cocoa
from my Smirnoff Ice can.

It was one of the few things
I recall them agreeing on,
the grossness of olives.
When I put them on my
fingertips and waved in their faces
Mom and I were
a united front,
making them squirm.
My sister, who grew up in the same house and
somehow had a completely different
childhood from me,
made quietly animated sour faces.
My dad, who once went so far as to
eat ants off a windowsill to
convince us he was in fact
a vampire, would say, “Disgusting.”
I wore black olives on my fingers
as often as I could.

Props to visitors for not norming mysticisms.
Conditioning is no picnic. I’d risk ignoring victory
if it got toxicity to stop. I’m stoic if my mirror’s stoic
(not oft)—I mimic it, groping. My form is my commons.
Sick doctors trip, voicing, “Skin’s minor koi pond stinks.”
I find synonyms for insisting, “I’m opposing!” Not condoning?
Moving into “no,” “for good”? Skin is prison stock.
Proving sordid. Dirty coin. If I root my scion, forging spring,
my prognosis is off—I’m citing gods. I’m stooping.

Death follows me

I do not lift my hands

conducting it

or saying it so

but it manages to stay

three feet behind me

And when I finally can stand still

finally land between four walls

it strikes

The rest of life knows

to jump in the backseat

Seatbelts, please!

Death must be dealt with

right away and always

Scrub the red-black stains

from tiles and

other nonabsorbent surfaces

Fresh paint over morbid graffiti

It’s a cover up

Sweep up the bones and

discard in the bins around back

Don’t forget to take it to the curb

on Wednesday night

to clear the wreckage and

rid the smells of my own life

decomposing around me

No fresh beginnings

with new sprouts of life worth living

Death knocks on every door

I call home

–      After Danny Boy, by Frederic Weatherly

The morning is heavy, with moisture
like tears gathering in slate skies,
mounting up to overwelling, feeling
like attempt to cool oppressive summer
heat that clings, nail and tooth
to the day’s possibilities. 

And I remember, I wonder
if I can hear the pipes,
        calling, calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of smooth-shapen wood;
              my own personal folklore)

Somewhere, somewhen,
the laughter of children
gone silent, eyes like glass
and mystified, following
a stranger, in the streets
of Hamelin, deft fingers
dancing a row of holes
like knots in a tree, until
innocence is tucked to bed
in unseen caves.

And I wonder, did they even
hear the pipes,
                        calling,
                                    calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of dark and lonely woods; 
              a diasporic folklore)

Somewhere else, somewhen other
passengers aboard Flight 153
enter wispy clouds, and
disappear, in folds unknown,
til decades later, in the flimsy rags
of a tabloid—reemerge
articulated and skeletal remains
in their seats.  Arms around necks,
heads upon shoulders.  Fictional
as they may be, I can see them.

And I wonder, could they
hear the pipes,
                        calling,
                                    calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of half-forgotten woods;
              an urban folklore)

I remember—I returned
from a Europe sleeping, feeling
much the same, bones laid out
to dry, an innocence lost
in different caves, years ago,

fit for moisture, in a different
summer, different
heat and gathering rain, and

I’m older, now—I’ve left the fold
of that time, that space.  The sun
feels like it will beat the clouds
from the skies, over this deck,
over the red umbrella hanging
over the oxidized metal
of the table that supports
this laptop. 

But I feel the years
mounting, and I feel
this love, like a long-held breath, and

I wonder if this sound
I hear, calling,
                        calling,
                                     is you,

or me,
or her (it’s her.  It’s always
her) or just the pipes

             (their melancholy whistling
              that breath, that single breath,
              through a tunnel of internal woods;
              the ending, or the beginning
              of folklore) 

I’m still writing.

saw bigfoot yesterday
along 19 South
on the right
among tall green grass
and taller longleaf pines

he was eight to ten feet
dark figure emerging from the forest
my quick glance
then another
collected info

he was not real far
from a white frame house
could have been a silhouette
cut from a sheet of plywood for fun
or a sculpture
or, actually him

the image
now burns in my mind
I thought of turning around
shooting a pic for proof
but once on the road
I rarely retrace

when I was young
bigfoot was a possibility
for me
seems less likely now
with man’s intrusion
into dense forests
and mountain tops

who truly knows
of his existence?
the deer, the wildcats
that roam the deep forests
mountain lions, panthers
wolf, bear and fox —
they know the woods
scent of friend and stranger 

they’ve seen him
or not
their unbiased knowledge is pure
let’s ask them

To have a friend
is to experience the sublime, terrible state
of being known.
What could possibly be better,
or worse,
than having a person look you in the eye
and pull from your very soul
the truth of yourself.

To be awful is to be full of awe
To be terrifying is to elicit terror 
To submit to friendship is
To say nothing and
to feel nothing,
yet still they respond truthfully;
“I understand.”

Before that pushing,
hungry,
loving force,
I am not strong enough
to hold it at arm’s length.
Under a awful smile,
I am known

For two days, we quietly emerged from the periphery.
Fingers deftly speaking through the day, you were divided, but less so.
Moving free I saw your smile sent with abandon,
gladly treading in normally reserved waters. 
Your voice, sweet air filling bouyant cells to sustain my heart.
Monday comes and I return, looking up from just below