Posts for June 6, 2022 (page 3)

You say it’s all my fault,
casting aside blame like a poncho 
draped only around yourself.
You blame him too,
because of course its his fault.

He’s the one that stole 
your precious baby girl.
The one you left to think that 
everybody had a daddy that was never around.

I’ve smiled and nodded my way 
through eight years of hell.
Nine hours a week with
crossed of calender pages 
and tally marks. 

Only two years
five months
and twenty-eight days
until I never have to see your face again.
Trust me, I’m counting.

You picked a year old fight today.
You said some things
that made me glad you didn’t notice
I painted my nails for pride.
Always the devil’s advocate,

But who wants to side with the devil?
Certainly not the good catholic man,
Who goes to church every Sunday
and left his family for seven years
No, it’s the daughter who likes to dye her hair and kiss girls.

You call me a liar and immoral.
I weep silently in the backseat.
You yell at me as I shrink back in fear?
I say nothing.
and try to think of what I can do to please you.

Have you ever thought,
that maybe,
just maybe,
that I’m too damn tired for this?

Up through the hills
the morning fog rises
she says it’s from the rabbits’ fires
as they cook their morning meal
or from the flared nostrils of a slumbering dragon
her mountainous back dappled with pines  

she taught me to keep my stitches tight
and my pans greased
tucked away out of sight
to make a perfect pone
broken
not cut

she let me talk sharp
my hair flying like wild fire
about my sunburned face

but she kept her tongue 
and woke early
to roll her mousey locks

she taught me how to heave a saddle
to ride with light hands
how it was safe to walk behind my horse
but never a man

how to pack everything you own
into a single truckload
and look back often
even when you shouldn’t  

I found her restless traits
strewn about like little pebbles
gathering them in my pockets
weighing down my temper  

I hear her words in my mind
and remember to tuck away my pieces
somewhere my children can’t find

You didn’t have to do it so tenderly.
You didn’t have to stand up from your seat at the
     Covid Rapid Testing tent so quickly.
You didn’t have to stumble over the dichotomoy
     of your hesitation & enthusiasm to take the
     tissue from me.
You didn’t have to reassure me that it was going
     to be ok.
It – the hair, the night, my life.
You didn’t have to go along with my lame joke
     that it’s good luck.
Luck – tonight, tomorrow, forever.
You didn’t have to check one more time to make
     sure my hair looked all set for the evening.
That I looked all set for the evening.
My mirror on the go.
Have a great night
Like it’s all part & parcel of that hot and
     droning job.
Or maybe it was your fresh air too?
Your chance for a poem.
Maybe you’re writing a poem right now too.
About how a stranger actually talked to you
     in New York City.
Looked you in the eyes,
Exchanged a tissue,
Made a lame joke,
Let you touch them tenderly,
For a moment.

I guess
it’s written
in my eyes,

street beggars
sigh as I
pass by,

clutch my token
change and console
me,  “lo siento”;

surely their sadness
must be more
than this

but what
do I know?

still I can’t believe
she let me leave
without a kiss

See, I have this joke that’s not really a joke about how the gods and Ashton Kutcher are punking us all and for the love of sweet and sacred baby seals could someone just jump out and say Gotcha already? Seriously. I told you it wasn’t really a joke, I mean there’s no door, no single jar of mayo, no knocking the dressing. No joke. The funny thing is the telling’s well over two years old, premiering early November 2016 and not actually a long-term Covid symptom. Y’all this series has drug on far too long and if the dude sometimes known as Kelso doesn’t (showered or not, who cares at this point) jump out with catch phrases flying from his lips, we will all soon lose what is left of our grief and virus-ravaged minds. Everyone’s gonna be mad when credits roll and they find the show’s produced by devils, demons, and Bernie Sanders—please don’t shoot the poet messengers. Please don’t shoot. Please. Who cancels a god drama? Who doesn’t laugh when gods tell jokes.

Home is a place
To lay down your burden
Come home and rest  

Many have been lucky
Many have fallen, fugitives
Their refuge elusive

That place is true
Shelter from wind and rain
Warmth, comfort… peace

The island has no name
that they can recall. It can only be
found on maps of the human
heart: between the great smooth
swell of ventricle and the mottled
surface of atrium, in that sweet
trough where arterial and venous
currents run side by side. Soft
swoosh and steady pumping moves
them both ways and everywhere.

Your neck gets tired
after looking up for so long
in a field in the middle of nowhere,
but you
can’t 
stop
watching
the meteors shoot across the clear night’s sky.

You get chilly
and finally pull on a sweatshirt
asfastasyoucan
because you
don’t 
want
to 
miss
one
with a sweeping tail
or one that’s brilliantly red.

You give in to gravity and the muscle cramp in your neck
and lay on the dew wet hood of the car,
but even so you have to constantly
turn
your
head
to catch all of them
falling so fast, all at once.

They fill your eyes
so that later, much later,
when you close them
you
still
see
the Perseids,
and you think

there is so much wonder
here
in the middle of nowhere.

last week’s northern rains flow here today
green leaf swath flanks low stream

anthill busy with water collection
pink-brown dirt settles inside my shoes

water pool reflects manganese sky
gnarled tree roots stretch toward a drink

dry indian rice heads bend with weight of seed
red rock monolith rises in front of trail

blue shade cools mud and me
bird beats its bill into far off tree

an old owl
or some freight train
rolling past town