Turning off the neighbor’s tap
The water drips.
A minute depression
worn into the ground
from repeated transgressions.
A metaphorical X
Signaling the exact spot
Where shame breeds
In a child’s heart for
Just wanting a drink or a clean face.
She looks in the mirror now
Both a world away and still right there
A woman still turning the knobs tight
So as not to leave a mark in the porcelain bowl.
Where makeup stains look too much like dirt.
A year to the day
that I buried my mama,
my kitten yelps in pain.
Don’t know what’s wrong.
It’s Saturday night-
no emergency vet.
I hold him,
stroke his fur lovingly,
grasp his tiny paw.
Tell him to show everyone
how strong he can be.
Did these same actions
for my mama.
Don’t know which is worse-
seeing the suffering
or not being able
to do anything about it.
The grassland sea, is adrift on the plains;
A mass of souls, of infinite influence.
Tickling the air and hiding delicate truths.
To seem alive, though to have no will to sway;
The wind stands above it,
The commander and actor.
Man sees itself in these seas,
In the wilderness.
And carries back the experience,
So twisted as to make man stand alone as the commander and beneficiary.
A God came to be, through not his own will to live;
But his world was created by his own creation.
Man comes to be, through the will of man;
And new traits come through his Own creation.
A human beings creation,
Creates a billion worlds.
Disregarding the first world,
As an almost pathetic place.
To live upon it, considered to be primitive;
In the synthetic worlds of this age.
Perhaps it is our senses that are to be fooled,
Rather than the man itself.
Seeking to become simplistic,
Rather than question a question.
To forgo the origin of thought,
To find some numbing life with the edges off.
The grassland sea, is the no mans land;
Upon which he mind is set adrift.
When tired of tedium and inadequacy,
When the free spirit questions not its own creation.
But the byproducts of that first creationist vision,
To be neither above nor below morally to its creator.
Dust from the
Saharan desert
fills these
Kentucky
hills like
smog fills
the city streets.
It settles through
the hollows
making every
scenic view
rolling out
across
the distance
hazy
as I gaze over
the ridges.
I stand
waist deep
in brush
and poison ivy to
reach the black
raspberries
scattered along
the edges where
the field meets
the forest.
Tulip poplar
saplings brush
my elbows,
my fingers
stained purple,
my hair blows
into my face,
and I feel the
humid wind of
change as I fill
my bowl
with berries.
We’ll always have Paris
he said when he left
forever
the chop of propellers and promises
ringing in her ears, her hat flew
off her head towards the runway,
a ravaging wind and the dark night
of no stars.
We’ll always have the lake house
he said as he tried to tighten the grip
around her hand, his voice
almost invisible now.
We’ll always have those grand sycamores
where we tied Aunt Jayne’s old hammock,
rocked together under a lush green canopy,
fragrance and time never ended
that summer.
What is wrong with you mother fuckers?
You’ll always have?
We got weather, an environmental crisis,
constitutional crisis, social injustice,
a pandemic—people standing up for
their rights not to wear a mask,
lots of dead people.
We’ll always have?
We’ll always have?
I’ve written pages and pages
about why you are who
you are and the way you are
penned the cocktail of assumptions
that lead to a conclusion
that I still believe is correct
but after all this
I don’t think it’s healthy
for either of us
to remain
because I’m dead empty
I know now, that I was
throwing energy into
a well
like the one
I found when I was young
and stared at a rippling
reflection
after throwing rocks
and limbs and earth
I remember that smell
of damp moss
knowing how cold
that black water could be
there was nothing I could
have ever said or done
that would have stopped
you
doing
what
did
because it was never
my place
I’ll be seeing you
on the next turn
I water
heirloom tomato plants
until the garden is as wet
as if after a day of showers.
Yellow blooms, wiltled leaves,
immature tomatoes revive.
When the pink and yellow
tomatoes ripen,
I will invite you
to come and pick
a Walmart bag full
to take home with you.
Maybe,
by then,
Corvid-19
will be conquered
with a vaccine
and we will sit
on the front porch,
watching the sun
go to sleep
and a full moon
waking up.
country sounds
comparatively are different
cows, birds, roosters
the wind blows, unabashed
only trees stand in its path
oh, and the occasional house and or barn
cars rarely pass and people not seen nor heard but for a wave hello
no one is yelling in the street
no fireworks or motors except the tractor baling hay late into the evening
everything for a purpose, no energy wasted
quiet is underrated and I am unsure why I often yield to noise
These protests
w i l l b e
parades some day.
Can’t you see?
if we truly knew
equality and
stood for love
d a i l y
we would never even
need parades and
humans could just
b e happy.
it is weird to think the moon and stars
can be seen from any direction
even when leaving a place
that is more of a home
than your own.
