Posts for June 11, 2021 (page 7)

more than a few years ago
my neighbor fed the feral cats
78 was the final count 
when she decided 
they were my job now

I had taken in three
two died quickly
and one didn’t yet

One survived the purge
by disappearing
I think I killed him this spring
He was suffering from fleas

so thick that his whiteness was stained pink
I gave him some medicine 
and never saw him again
I don’t believe he was ever touched

The last of the colony died just the other day
I spent $800 but wish I had just let him die at home
here with me

I feel guilty just having one cat
and guiltier still when I looked out just this week
and see the starving cats
left last night in my alley 

And my relief

I carefully picked out only the diseases that have no cure
So everyone’s pity lasts a bit longer
And I can guilt them into pulling the plug faster
Convince them to finally give up on me                
I want to come to my funeral
I want to hear them curse at me, for the therapy bills they’ll have to pay
Because they never lied when they said I was important
Important enough that experts had to cure them of my (passed on) disease
Scared of the guilt that maybe my future would be nice
But I am impatient
I want of nothing
I wish to go back to the nothingness
The dirt
Maybe I’d fit in better there

Bacteria I

A bacterial cell is smaller than a human cell, but larger than the cell of a virus.

Bacteria II

Some bacteria are bad. Some are not.

Bacteria III

Some bacteria have become antibiotic resistant. MRSA, for instance.

Bacteria IV

All of our penicillin today came from a cantaloupe procured at the local market.

Bacteria V

One fungus, a yeast, can penetrate the human heart.

Cincinnati Museum of Art – early 2000s sometime

Van Gogh was on my
right hand side
next to the door.

The red against ash white
tree trunks
shared words with 
my soul
from across the room.

The only thing I could see.  
Closest I’d ever be
to the man who felt life
from the aching inside out.

Not the victim of it.
Life a victim of him.
Lopped off an ear for love.
He did.

That’s love, I reckon.

Docent three steps ahead
turns corner out of the room.

Van Gogh took my hand.
Let me show you,
he says.

Raised strokes
palpable 
from feet away.

Layer the paint.
Life is layered.
Layer the paint, 
and it breathes 
like you and I.

By my wrist,
he lifted my hand.
Feel, he says.

With fingertip, I glaze
decades of time.
A tree painted 
by a man so alive
he was called mad.

Shh, he says,
nothing is dead.
Time is rhythm
The signature of beating heart
slowed to the rate of decaying paint.

I did it.
Alchemy.
It slowed for me.
It slows for you too.

Breathe.
Now.

Weak in the knees,
I grab the door facing.
Scan the room to see
if anyone saw me
in my nakedness.

It’s the truth that
pings like a tuning
fork in your spine
makes You sit up
straight. Listen. It’s 
like that time I gave
you a handful of 
clouds and you said
it was like a dinner
bell echoing across
a pasture. You’ve never
been on a farm, but
the clatter made you
hungry and eager 
for home. 
 

        “The beginning is always there.

          It is never over.”

I thought…                                 (as I too often do)

was under the assumption…          (as poets do)

that we were supposed to be…              (as I act)

platonic—                                                            (…)

that I was supposed to be…                           (less)

not what I feel/am…                          (pretending)

but what you need/are…            

                                                        (thinking again)

only, tonight, you were…                               (are)

what I thought you were…                            (are)

and expected/hoped I…                                  (am)

am.  I am.  And We are…                             (I Am)

Everything

We ever were.      

                                                                       (amen)

Nuisance rain dotted the windshield through West
Virginia, wipers on, wipers off, clouds
hovered close to mountaintops, but Maryland
opened skies to cumulus rabbit ears
popped and listening. Cicadas roared
at a rest stop, and soon windows powered
up, wipers swishing splattered bug guts. By
Pennsylvania, heat hit, and orange
barrels lined the lanes. Semis squealed brakes, cars
slowed, traffic built, crept. I took a turn, let
GPS have its way through small towns with
old stone and brick, unchained hotels, and family
diners. Every corner offered ice
cream. I needed a bathroom more.

Post-Covid, every stop seems dangerous.
Mask, no mask. Travelers smile, but eye each
other warily. Alone too long, afraid, we
venture out, try to remember old ways.
When I arrive, I will need a hug.
Will I ever arrive the same?

I feel the water of language
Lift and drop and hear the soft
Lapping on the shore
That sounds like an invitation
To a kiss

i am a dragon who lives in
glittering vaults of secondhand anger
no one is afraid of my dull and boxy teeth
i feel my ribs to ensure i am still there
what lives below my eyes does not live
only covers a pile of fool’s gold
i do not cry for fear of rusting my treasure
my wings are not made for flying
neither are they particularly pretty
yellow songbirds visit me under the ground
but they always return to the daylight
it’s too dim to make out the color my skin
only the glint of my eyes and iron bars
i am made up and imaginary and fantasy
what am i hidden away from
who am i hidden away from