Hope
Hope is everywhere
Birds chirping, flowers blooming
The hug of a friend
My plump skin feels precariously
thin over certain links in my skeleton.
Caverns where there should be plateaus,
a rib protrudes unexpectedly on an
otherwise padded form.
Sometimes I picture what will remain someday-
Bones and a robotic pile of
Sutures, mesh, and gel,
the flesh melted and
spirit freed.
Drunk off the coolness of night
the sweat staggers down my forehead
and into the corner of my baby green mirrors.
I try to see past the haze
razing or slow pillaging or shimmering
or evaporating off the asphalt.
I stare at it posturing. Pretending
I know how to read tea leaves or tarot or any situation really.
i’m trying to find reason. No. I’m not trying to find anything.
Today. Even the shade under the trees
in Gratz Park are mirages of a better time.
Making me remember back when.
When we had seasons here.
A memory. One that stings
like a bee. Or embarrasment. Or like sweat
when it finds its way into a fresh cut on your knuckle
or into your eyes.
When all you trying to do is see.
I listen to the song again
and again: Peter, Paul,
& Mary singing, “Where
Have All the Flowers Gone?”
Just how many carnation creations
will it take to cover the caskets
of the tiny victims, and how many
times will senators say, “Something
must be done.” The broken record plays
over and over. News anchors announce
another mass murder. We know
where our world is going.
Where is our handbasket?
Raucous ruckus
Songbirds scurry
Cardinal to the trees
Sparrow to the bush
Red-winged blackbird hops
Along the fence-top
Grackle alone enjoys the buffet
Scattering seed with abandon
Taking what it will and leaving the rest
Below, a chipmunk lunches on its leavings
From its hiding place among the leaves
The feral cat waits
The time has come, the tortoise said,
To talk of many things.
Of courts and cunts and eardrum wax,
Of outrages and rings
And why the city burns with rage
And whether pigs can sing
But wait a bit, the Proud Boy said
Before we plan our seige
For some of us must find our arms
To stake ground for our liege.
Do hurry, said the Q-Anon
They may start to impeach.
A flag! A flag! the tortoise said,
Is what we chiefly need.
A horny hat, a hand grenade,
Are also good indeed.
Now if you’re ready, Proud and Q,
We march til we succeed.
They trod up to the Capitol
They flew the fancy flags
They raged and tore and insulted
They climbed up on the crags.
Disdain police, ignore the law
We’ll leave the place in rags.
The tortoise wrung his wrinkled hands
He cried crocodile tears.
The battle lost, the warriors tossed
The Proud Boys now in fear.
But Q remained behind them both
To plot another year.
The summer heat arrives earlier than usual–
90 degrees on this late spring day
and we resist our natural urge to roam carefree
Trapped between rising temperatures and pressing humidity,
we mimic statues and toss half-murmured prayers through the dense atmosphere
begging to be turned to stone, to become hardened and cold
so we no longer suffer in stifling silence
We look to the horizon, practicing rituals to summon a cool breeze, a gentle relief
and I am here wishing that I could kiss you
and take tiny sips from your lips to quench my unrelenting thirst
But my feet are cement, heavy and ungraceful
our mouths remain closed, untouched
and we watch dark clouds fill the sky
a promising threat to the uninvited
and the response we fools deserve.
Seems like everybody knows what’s best for me
I’m not allowed this medical procedure or this drug
It’s demanded that I take that drug and hide my worthless face
My car and my family’s protection are Evil
and I must give up these things I like because “they” don’t
because I have an opinion “they” hate me
Except for the money I somehow owe “them”
“They” want that, for sure
So, for all “those” who feel “they” have the power to demand my sacrifice
“You” first!
I’ll be right behind “you”, maybe
