Posts for June 17, 2021 (page 7)

It started with a pinprick
a tiny red dot of nothing
I rubbed it lightly
dismissing it 
immediately

By Tuesday it was larger 
a dark speckled patch of deep red
the size of a dime
and had thickened
immensely

The constant itching commenced 
later in the following week 
I scratched ‘til I bled
the crawling grew
immeasurably

The dot soon became a blotch
that stretched the whole length of my arm
I applied tonics
creams and potions
impervious

Widening then branching thus
snaking its way beneath the skin
undulating and
twisting itself
immigrating

The dots turned to ridged holes
tightly packed swollen and blistered
tiny mouths gaping
sucking for air 
implausibility

Sharp pointed white granules sprout
inside the plump hardened circles
similar to teeth
that look like mine
impersonating

Then came the protruding tongues
unrolling from orifices
practicing with sound
beginning words
improvisatory

Covering them with clothing
to muffle the cacophony
of thousands of mouths
learning to speak
impersonate

Until their voices conjoined
chanting with plaintive pleas and cries
drowning my own speech
until I was
immured

I look at you in profile, 
Sitting in the passenger seat. 
Head down, eyelashes flitting across texts.
Leg keeping time to my playlist songs.

I yearn to protect you like I did when you were a baby, 
And keep your heart from breaking.

But I know if I did
Then you wouldn’t understand
How awesome The Cure is.

Oh, aren’t they lovely,
the daffodils bursting
across my body?

Cracking open my chest,
pomacing through veins,
spitting from synapses.

My mouth soars
and my heart sings
some odd mantra:

maybe I’m coming
back around.

toss this out the back, she says
a bowl heavy with uneaten fruit
accompanies me across the deck,
wet still from afternoon rain,
in night air thick with June heat
bugs glom to the lit railing, and
when the green and red wedges fly
their arcs take on a Christmasy glow
and I think that’s a world away, but
here we are at the halfway mark
in the year, and I think
a year is short, in reality (except last year)
not like in our minds, where
time slows it motion, where
it meanders across our continuum
and I think, back to younger days,
waste not, want not, they said, but
here I am at the half century mark,
why waste time eating bad watermelon
when our Christmas time’s a coming

#ThoughtfulThursday

Joanna is a rusty film canister
rattling in a cardboard box,

satin costume ripping, a crime
on stage. The last time I saw her

she was wearing velvet,
the color of moss

after a rain. I set
the table not knowing

it would be our last
together. We played Chinese

checkers, cooked
turkey. After our third

flute of champagne the bomb
wrapped around her heart

ran to zero. I heard Mozart,
falling water, a screaming

monkey, something from
Stravinsky.  She poured

herself out, gravy
from the boat. She began

her monologue, it was a burst
of privacies. She bemoaned

a long parade of deplorable
offenses. The affair with the aging

character actor. The father
despised but longed for. His side

burns, the horse whip
used to correct her foul

ups. Too many bit
parts until life was a sequence

of scraps and chards.  Oh the loneliness
of commercials, melancholy

of the cutting room
floor, she wept. Joanna

was all tone and vibration. Pomegranates
splitting, frantic clacking

of a kitchen whisk, cracking
of dry log lusting

for flame.  Then, her
withdrawal. You’ve seen

too much, I’ll get rid
of you, she announced with a trace

of grief and in a commanding stage
voice sharp enough to cut into bone.

the artist’s casts
400 impressions
plasters
mounts
frames
an exhibit
to embrace
what the world sees
as ugly
26 feet
10 panels
voluminous
visages
of vulvas

I see her on the bench ahead before I hear her voice,
but I know what to expect. All weathers you may
see her walking, smoking, cursing, carrying

on in her hiking boots, holding court before a gathering
only she can see. I have tried talking to her, passing
on pleasantries that feel safe to give:

good morning, afternoon, beautiful day, but she grows quiet then
as if this ordinary talk is dangerous, untrusted. I do not
know her story. Legs browned, strong, she must

have money for her smokes, and her shoulder bag hangs heavy
as she walks, her body leaning opposite for balance.
Listening to her, there’s no sense I can discern,

her tirade a mix of raw verbal filth and Bible verses.

As I pass her on the path, I am not afraid, more curious and sad
for the stops and starts in her discourse, the pauses when
she hears replies perhaps the nearby geese and

groundhogs also know. Our words float through or around her as
she wanders in a desert moaning with ghosts, giving
wisdom in tongues, receiving prophecy

from an alien host.

Good morning.
Good morning.
How are you?
Fine. How are you?
Not too bad, for a Thursday.
I hear that.
Yep.
Well, have a good one.
You too.
See ya.
Bye.

Quitting time.
Sure is.
Long day.
Yep.
Well, have a good evening.
You too.
See you in the morning.
Sounds good–
good night.
Good night.

Hey, you parked next to me–
in Bill’s space. What happened to Bill?
Bill got fired.
What? When?
The other day.
What for?
He was sleeping
with the boss’s 
secretary. As you can imagine, 
the boss had a problem 
with that. For several reasons.
Oh, yeah. For sure.
Yep. It’s complicated.
Going to paint your name
on the wall?
Eventually. No rush.
Understood. Well,
see you in the morning.
See you in the morning.

Depressionist art,
blue silken words web and grow,
with Charlotte’s finesse.

Come wander with me
down lanes of memory.
Put a sign on the door of Today
saying Closed for reminiscing.

Let’s see people we loved,
hear their laughter,
and watch them as they work.

Let’s take a look at the school house
and the playground joyous at noon.

Let’s stop by the barbershop
where the old men sit on the bench.

Let’s stand and watch a freight train go by,
count the cars and wave at the 
man in the caboose.

Let’s smell the sunshine in the
clean sheets on the clothesline.

Let’s look at the dinner table,
the plate of cornbread
hot off the griddle, with beans and
pickle relish and onions,too.

Let’s stand on the riverbank
for a baptizing and listen to the hymns.

Wrap up each memory fondly.
Keep each one safe in the
corner cabinet of your mind
until time for another visit
down sweet memory lane.