Posts for June 8, 2022 (page 3)

Purrhaps 

coughs silky-soft tortie deep in her pillow-paws,
curled in Chevy belly pan. 

Rain-drilled metal rouses marjaryasana,
her midnight yoga roll. 

Disembodied green-orbed slits emerge
dry under Chevy batwings. 

Cloud-released moonlight illuminates
police cars that give no chase 

to stolen cars dumped in the weeds
of junkyard dank. 

Furry silhouettes without a breed
or pedigree slink from flat rubber skins, 

three-window & banjo rear ends
& draw furmidable lines. 

Tortie slow-switches
her tail like wipers in misty rain. 

Two youngsters face off, ears up & flattened
guttural meOrowl, squabble for territorial claims. 

Tortie crouches & bends half-bit ear
and sings a song that no one hears. 

She jumps to Chevy belly pan & caught
that membrane where dream and reality coexist, 

& purrs Pawsability, hollow-echoes of home.    

Sun rises

Sun shines

Heat pulsates

From the deepest

Blade of grass

To the highest

Tree

How the world becomes alive

In the singular moment

Of the world becoming awake

In the singular moment

Of breath

Rising

And falling

Of animals ascending

Descending

Over fields

Through water

Across the sky

Beings of life

Stir upon

And within

The heat

The rapidness

Of life

And breath

Door knobs, TV sets,
sinks’s faucets,
the milk barns’ iron bars:
I still feel
those sparks
and jolts. 

Are you sleeping well?
It’s hard to fall asleep.
Do your thoughts yell?
I close my eyes, my worries sweep,
cyclonic, from the deep. 

It’s become a pattern
Those days where I become sticky
And sealed up in a yucky film
Like an old shower curtain clinging to itself 

And I decide nothing could be better 
Than a full on drenching cold soak,
And tra la la, it’s raining!

And I take all the stuff out of my pockets and
go outside,
and it has invariably paused.

But still I wander down the sidewalk,
admiring lilies in the streelight
and all the colors in the road

I don’t get soaked through at all
But I do get painted into long shadows
and chilly diamond drops
and so rub some ink into a light poem

You’re 3,500 miles away

And yet every time I hit my bed

I see you laying there,

Your hand between your face and the pillow

Staring at my eyes like they’re the only things in focus

Listening to every word of my silly story

And we’re only platonic, because we love different people

But neither of us have those people, one-sided love

And my heart can’t help but reach for you

She’s cold and lost

And you’re body exerts heat,

And no matter where I am,

I find you, taking shelter in my mind

You’re gone for a month,

I say goodnight when you say good morning,

And my mind can’t help but make it tragic,

Like it’s good for the plot

But I hope you’re a character who makes it to the last page,

No matter what we are

Or where we are

you turn left at the Jesus statue
go about halfway up
past that old barn they
burned down last Halloween
then hang a right
when you get there
go up on the porch
ask for old Patrick
he can stop blood,
they say he got it from
his papaw, who was
a seventh son of a seventh son,
I don’t know though
never much cared
for all those old timey
remedies
but they say
it works

Poised between your brows
Licking salt from your forehead 
Sweat drips like honey

Sunlight cracks dismal clouds and humble deciduous
trees become a tropical rainforest
in my backyard, crystalline
sparkles falling from leaf to leaf
like gemstones.
Sirens subside in a cascading decrescendo
as mist rises from makeshift burbling brooks
in prisms
reflecting diamond rainbows
into our kitchen,
twinkling above our spontaneous dish-drying disco.

Shakespeare asked:

“What is in a name?”

And I have found the answer to be:

The entire world.

Years from now,

when I hear your name,

my mind will wander back to you.

Hovering above me

in the soft red glow

of my clock radio

a millions years ago.