Posts for 2020 (page 174)

the string around my finger reminds me I’m
guilty of
                whack a mole
                                         crimes committed in
dreams I can’t remember, a spree by my
Doppelganger dark side I hide      
                                                       whack a mole  

Jung said whatever I deny consciousness will
keep reappearing        
                                 whack a mole
                                                          until I
acknowledge it, which I’m willing to do I’ll even
sign a blank confession you can fill in the
details     
             whack a mole
                                      but confession is a lie told
to cover up another  
                                   whack a mole
                                                             until the arm  

suffers
muscle
failure  

Stop me if you’ve heard these before.
Just kidding, I’m not stopping.

Do blondes really have more fun?
Do Hushpuppies really make sidewalks softer?
Do some people actually outgrow their need for milk?
Did Tareyton smokers really rather fight than switch?
Was eating at Jerry’s really a family affair?  Local context, can be ignored if you ain’t from these parts.

Did Elvis ever really leave the building?
Should the government own and operate the railroads?  OK, that’s really pre-Boomer.
Finally, post-Boomer:  Will we ever be able to talk about Fight Club?
Leaving it there for now,
There’s only so much inquiring minds want to know.

when the bait

is dropped

i promise you,

i will be the first

to bite

and once your arm

is numb

from reeling me in,

i’ll wait for you

to watch me

being snagged

by your hook

but i won’t make it

to the dock

because although

the water is cold,

i can’t help but

swim away

freely,

leaving you

stunned

at the shore

I know I shouldn’t do it.
It’s become taboo, forbidden really.
Health risks, germs, all that jazz…
Still, I have aching for it. 
I can just taste it in the back of my throat-a throwback to my youth.
With no more time for contemplation
I bring my parched lips to the end of the water hose.

nice cool morning
hint of later heat
front porch coffee
bite of something sweet

two doves exchange
haunting coo coo coos
hot pink begonias
uninterrupted blue

concentrated effort
spider spins a web
scent of new-mown grass
all my senses fed

poetry in the making
LexPoMo is waiting

Our hearts are the
           strangest of clocks,
not adding time
           but subtracting it,
each beat
           closer to it’s last—

Customarily, we call them imaginary friends.
Mine are metaphysical twins.

“Which one’s the boy, which one’s the girl?”
Everyone accepteda need to define gender back then.

I think I always answered “Bossie, of course” was the girl-

But I reclaim this regurgitation in my here-and-now.
Delete the obsolete misinformation.
I can’t keep straight which invisible
companion’s a little more masc,
who’s a little more femme. We
have grown decades older together and
after all they are my friends and
while in-visible, I can see both being two-souls.
Also what kind of friend am I
if those conditional lenses determine
the degrees to which I am comfortable
to acknowledge them?

I hope we keep close
another 40 years and counting. 

Each day, I watch the sun from my living room.
Light accumulates on Venetian blinds.

It’s easy to list what you cannot have:
a view of sky, a ceramic bowl, a something.

Summer is never cold enough. A/C on. 
On the table, ice doesn’t melt in my glass.

It’s interesting to think about

WRITING                                       
Somewhere                                      
between the pain                                                
and the page                                      
               there is hope.                                      

Hope that man                                      
in his humanity                                      
might learn                                      
from his mistakes                                      
might see                                      
a new horizon                                      
where peace                                      
and beauty                                      
rise up.
                                       
Somewhere                                       
between the pain                                                
and the page                                      
there is love.                                      
Love that comes                                      
bearing witness                                      
to hate                                      
love                                      
that out lives anger                                                
                     and war.                                                                            

Somewhere                                      
between the pain                                                
                        and the page                                      
there is a poet.                                      
A poet                                      
who’s heart bleeds                                     
and who’s brow                                      
is furrowed with thought                                      
and hope                                      
and love                                      
           for all of mankind.            
Tony Sexton

Black Lives Matter–what the world needs to hear.
Ev’ryone matters, but that’s not the point.
Black folks need our ears, our hearts, our minds joint.
Bless them and respect what they say and fear.

We would do well, our attentions high gear.
Acknowledge their pain. Go forward conjoint.
We can do better. We must. That’s the point.
Don’t ignore their cries. Don’t dare drop one tear.

Are we not brothers and sisters, I ask?
Love your neighbor. Defend to the end too.
Black Lives Matter. Face injustice past due.

Together we rise, we throw down our masks.
What the world could be like–all people free
bound by love alone from which need not flee.