Posts for 2020 (page 131)

For whatever reason,
some mangled and mismanaged chemicals, no doubt,
I’m afraid of the mailman.

I’m pretty sure he’s seen me in my most vulenrable state,
and I know he’s heard me napping
through the open window.

He’s easily the kindest mailman
I’ve ever had,
and that’s precisely what makes all this
so difficult.
He even stopped to help
clear a downed tree
from the storm.

I wish I could tell him:
“It’s not you, It’s me…

It’s not you, mailman,
lugger of letters,
passer-out of packages,

it’s me.
I’m a deeply flawed human being.”

I wake up and remember the world still burns.
Deep in its core, the molten pit boils 
as we spiral further into the void.
I ask Where are the workers to demolish the dam–
to set the water free and quench the earth’s painful thirst?–
Nobody answers.

News reports float along pristine blue waves
interrupted by snippets of sacchrine song and feigned concern.
It’s tough to de-tangle the rope they give us to hang ourselves,
but I still try.
It’s a welcome challenge.

I peer at my empty glass shining in the late-afternoon sun.
Rainbow prisms bounce through its cylindrical shape,
and bury themselves beneath dry soil.
I say a quick prayer and mourn the loss
because I know they won’t return;
not even in spirit.

I imagine parched, fuming mouths spitting combustible matter on unmarked graves,
and illuminating the night with tongues of keresene-drenched torches. 
What will become of the sun-bleached brush 
that nods its head in sorrow whenever the wind blows?
Who will invoke Νέφθυς to bury us with bricks made from present ashes?

I’ll drink to that. 

as i layed breathless

on the moss-covered trail,

i was approached

by two wolves.

you, the first one

of course, were here

when i first wandered

inside.

he, however,

trailed a few steps

behind after

watching from

afar.

you both lapped

me up until

i opened my eyes

to see

that though he

is a wolf, he didn’t

look at me

as prey.

it was you,

you were the wolf

in sheep’s clothes

when all you want 
is to drink in that
noise
between her parted lips
smell the sun that’s 
imprinted down her neck
speaking of the journey
across the purple-white
cosmos

there’s nothing else
that will do

Calendar-makers of early Japan
Parsed the year with delicate attention,
Discerning not just four seasons,
But twenty-four, the sekki.
In each sekki, three pentads, the ko.

Seventy-two seasons,
An exquisite almanac
Of nature’s quickenings and fadings, 
In the exact latitudes of Nihon,
The origin of the sun. 

For five days every February,
Came Fish Emerge from Ice season, 
Then, First Peach Blossoms, in March.
In May, Swallows Return,
And Rotten Grass Brings Fireflies. 
On and on, until Bears Hibernate,
Deer Shed Antlers, Streams Freeze,
And the cycle began anew. 

Here, a world and many centuries away, 
Four seasons pass, barely noticed. 
The crass world’s calendar makes no room
For acknowledging seventy-two. 

So I will make them for myself,
An idiosyncratic calendar
For my own latitudes,
With seventy-two tiny celebrations,
To mark and praise my year.

Here, today, is also Rotten Grass Brings Fireflies,
Before, there was Swallows Swoop at my Tractor. 
Soon will come Buying Hay for Horses,
Then, The Cat Comes in for Winter
And Takes My Chair. 

I might not even mind so much 
Leaving this glorious earth 
In a proper season called 
Old Women Vanish on the Wind. 

                                      Body Landguage 
                                (on viewing the “Connections” show 
                                 at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts)

They stand, mono-                                          arches her arm
chromatic, alone                                        upward, sweeping
in the room of white                                 it around, symetri-
blending in shades                                  cally following each
of cream, almond,                                   cursive stroke of the
honey, pausing                                                brush: her body
before the long                                                                the ink
panels of broad,                                                 alone in space.
 black brushstrokes —                                     He watches her,
 tall scrolls of calli-                                                head turned
 graphy, matted                                                      only slightly,
 side by side.                                              then stares intently
 She, intense, rises                                             at the symbols
 on her toes,                                                               before him.          

tryna have a debate on facebook
folks can grow from’s like climbing a barbed wire ladder  

twitter on the other hand
involves bathing in combustible liquid
playing with matches and pumping gasoline
while handling snakes  

the truth is everyone’s a tumbler
and we disappear in a snap

a dog curls its body into mine
his fur is itchy against my bare legs
but his warmth grounds me

he rests his head on his one white paw
and his tongue hangs out

I run my hand through his short hair
and feel the muscles beneath it quiver

He moves up towards my face and begins licking,
with his dried out tongue

it’s been a year since I had one of my own
and looking into her brother’s face
I can feel her in my great cloud of witnesses
looking down and wagging her tail

Snow Trillium in full bloom
A cloistered cascade
Carmelites in white bonnets

You can burn your hatred
Watch it go up in flames
You can put an end to it
With fire and needles
With love
You can learn and I won’t judge
No matter how old you are
How you were raised
You can unlearn it now
You can grow now
I’ll help if you need
You can get out that gallon of paint 
And start fresh
You can get a new hood for your
 Little S-10
Go ahead, ask questions, it’s okay
Years later, you’ll say,
“How could I ever hate a person
Just because of the color of their skin?”
And it will sicken you
But you can change right now
With just a few supplies
First, go get that gas can