Backyard spider considers yesterday’s booty—
trio of cicadas, each five times its size. They wriggle
against thin-gauge web, but it holds, dances
to their shrill wingbeats, never loosening its sticky grip.
Spider licks its lips, weaves on. Meanwhile, lured
by ungainly bait, pileated woodpecker pair
scales phone pole, high and low, fiery heads bobbing,
feasting on today’s red-eye breakfast special.
Poem Begun with a Line from Basho
—in gratitude to Darby Lyons
A cicada shell; it sang itself utterly away.
Is that what they’ll say when I plunge to earth,
wings stopped in mid-flight?
It’s true, I’ve labored in the dark for years,
found my way out of tunnels in the mud,
left behind so many husks. They crackle
underfoot of the ones who never wait
their turn, who rush toward the front,
making the loudest sounds.
They never notice the patient hawk
who hides in the pine, whose eye and ear
perceive all standout shrieks for fame.
In one great swoop, they are swallowed
in a flash of talon and beak. While those
who sing in the chorus drone on, fall
to the earth in one piece. Sung out.
Reduced to echoes, remembered,
perhaps, by other insects, scavenged
aloft as holy on lacquered beetle backs.
The thunder startled me
again
I shouldn’t have been surprised
because
I knew storms were forecast
but I let the loud noise frighten me
in the moment
It’s not that each room’s a stanza:
it’s each object caught by hands and eyes
when everything in the place seems noteworthy,
your head unwinds with solar eclipse melody.
It’s each object caught by hands and eyes–
the verbena oil bought, brought forth by dreamtime
and your head unwinds with solar eclipse melody–
the sorting of the apartment before the move.
The verbena oil bought, brought forth by dreamtime
still with the sticker from Sqecial Media.
The sorting of the apartment before the move,
making use of residential remains.
Still with the sticker from Sqecial Media,
every place comes with its own price.
Making use of residential remains,
beautiful things return to previous owners.
This ain’t something not to be honest about.
You see when I came from upriver, I wasn’t
finacially propped up and I misidentified
myself as a murderer. With no more breathing
in the bent priest’s ear and the 10th precinct
patrolling for me, I never looked back.
I’ve done some good I imagine.
I pulled Frankie’s boy from the river below,
but no one knew or no one wanted to know.
Another time, i kept us from freezing by digging
a whole and lining it with white-oak bark,
used cedar needles to start a fire. We stayed
warm with only a baby’s blanket for cover.
This ain’t a made up story though people who
know me wouldn’t believe it…I’m sure it won’t
be mentioned at my funeral.
When I look down at the river, knowing where
it’s coming from and where it’s going to, it’s
awful tempting, and I still might. Trouble is all
these damn dams, locks, barges and bulge-eyed
catfish…I don’t think I’d make it to where
I want to go. If I could get down past Little
Three Mile Creek to where Owl Hollow Road
comes out I’d be alright. Losing my son was
too much and working in the map room for 27
years didn’t help. Never could make permanent
settlement…too many squiggly lines, too much
loss of altitude. Old Man Whipple knows some-
thing about it. I never told anyone else. i just
built myself a little stone cabin and put up
a sign that said: bear to right, snake to the left
Forming among strata,
one must learn to anticipate
sharp edges and delicate
fractures that catch light,
refracting into iridescences,
the beveled facets pain creates
in the etching out life imparts.
Some stones are hard enough
to withstand chipping,
those diamonds brilliant
in reflecting sun,
drawing softer gems close,
then slicing off shards
as they rasp and chisel for luster.
Stones most damaged,
multifaceted ones,
those pierced and cleaved by living,
jagged from fragmenting
after being tumbled with
rubies and sapphires,
asymmetrical by choice,
on the verge of splintering
into a thousand shards-
they hold fascination,
emitting their own
inner luminescence,
precious to behold.
These stones embrace darkness
and awaken a dreamer
with crystalline tears.
Slivers honing geometrical form
so fragile that a dreamer’s
soul is transformed,
flaws and facets unmoved
by riffler or dremel,
maintaining integrity of shape
while feeling the ever sculpting
strike of a lapidary,
etching beauty from wretched stone.
KW
(after Paige Barricklow)
I love. When I let
the dogs outside. And they
don’t use the bathroom.
Because I’m not going
to be back. Until 9 or 10
tonight. And they will
have wished. That they
used the bathroom.
i painted my nails a light blue color
wishing i had a more accurate shade of periwinkle
the polish globbed on
my mother has hers painted a redish brown
ugly color
the paint is chipped
count them 5,5 vibrant color
count hers 2, 4 dull and scary
i bought 4 stickers for 18 dollars
she sent a 50 gallon tub of shirts, shoes and books to charity
one of us has a designer bag at home
the other one has a goodwill one
kate spade wallet and polaroid camara
is no match for an android lens and nobrand purse
I want your copy.
I want your clone.
If you had a twin,
I’d never leave him alone.
I just can’t
get enough of you.
If one’s this good,
then imagine two.
You’ve got me seeing double.
That’s fine with me.
I want as many of you
as there can be.
You and me
and a small army
of lovers who look just like you
is fine with me.
A sweet little orgy
just for two,
me and you and you
and you and you and you.
I’ve got love
for every version of you.
So bring ‘em all on,
see what this heart can do.
I’m writing you
these verses,
reaching out to you
across all universes.
I want to meet
every parallel you.
And make love to them all
if they want to.
Consent is sexy.
Consent is cool.
So come on, baby,
let me be your fool.
I want all of you.
Yes, every bit.
You’re the bad habit
I can never quit.
I’m as happy
as I can be.
If I smiled any bigger,
there’s be two of me.
You’re the Betty
to my Barney Rubble.
You’re two too much,
You’re my double trouble.
I love you with the heat
of a thousand suns
for the thousand different ways
you make my life fun.
I want a hundred of you
so I’ll never be lonely.
But I will settle for
the one and only.
You’re the original.
No one can compete.
You’re the one who came
and made my life complete.
So put your hand
inside of mine,
I love you in any number
‘til the end of time.
It’s better to be the leaver than the left,
more green shoots of new growth,
remembering my wedding dress
hanging on my bedroom door
me departed into my new life
the emptiness of the left behind.
I haven’t had much experience
as the left behind
always being the one to leave
cutting all ties, getting in the car and gone
Trip-tik maps beside me on the seat
this the slant I choose to savor.
Now the young are flying off, winging
into new vistas and I find myself on the porch
staring out on an almost dead tree. Just today
a hawk swept down into my yard, lingered
a few moments and then soared away. I still
hear it call to me from the high trees.
A song is playing in my head, to breathe,
you must leave.
