Posts for June 23, 2022 (page 8)

The hall behind us filled up with music,
laughter, the stomp and tap
of dancing feet.

We stood outside, as high desert 
air rapidly shed the day’s heat.
We had been promised a miracle.

Like the crowds at Lourdes, we teetered
between hope and fear of disappointment. 
We clustered around a bud-covered shrub

eyes fixed, not quite praying.  Then,
a gasp and oohs of awe as green sepals
withdrew one by one, revealed

a bud that burst open like
Fourth of July fireworks. Moonlight 
Lit up a flower that shone

yellow as noon-day sun. It happened again 
and again and again. Evening primrose 
released wave after wave of sweetness.

ancient minds
men walk with knuckles to earth
no thoughts of tomorrow’s report
no guilt in lack of desire to clean
no shame in neglection of tasks unfinished
nor regret of the dog
a small smile and tail-wag-eager to walk
ignored
lingering between full and empty
the only metric to measure the results of their day
modern heads now
how did we come to be
these creatures seeking
the fill of space between the lay of our bones
stretched out on earth
full of need

Seventy years old, arthritis-ridden,
scruffy-feathered, his back
to others — a survivor
of the Aztec bird heaven.

No onlookers pet this rescued creature,
a Mealy Amazon perched in the sun,
flying days over. On earth
the wind gently ruffles his feathers.

I smoke with regret. Every pleasurable pull poisonous, the American tobacco stains

to vomit my insides at first, to gag a wave billowing from inside, a cloud—

smoke swallowing, but the smallest payoff, I’m somehow different, then not so small; 

different again, then not so restless—pays handsomely.  I pay the tobacconist a share, 

though there are better days and better living, better times to clear free this dirty crutch.

I could say precious little more.  Just that when our son left the faucet running, 

she scrambled for phone numbers to contact insurance, in her fingers an old Marlboro 

saved for such occasions. Furious at this betrayal, I swiped it from her hands to smoke, 

it had been two years. So unbelievably nasty, and so satisfying, like a dominatrix whipping 

a guy in a Donald Trump mask, I settled into a calm routine, like walking.  

The keys in the ignition, a trip to Circle K, payment in hand,  a Vegas sex worker wrapped 

in leather straps for a forbidden release, in mentholated Newport pleasure.  

I’m still trapped under the whip, and I have my wife freaking out.

The kids are swimming in the hallway, and I am laying down.

Climax:
tear-salted words
of regret, a
graceful exit from a
no-fault disaster,
bad timing for
true intents.

Denouement:
Your tattooed
gestures seem
slick with convenience, like
your words.
Bedroom and
tantrum footage flickers, 
the audio, fast promises,
desperate bargainings of a
condemned man.

Epilogue:
I wear the ashes of my
life like war paint, you
scatter yours at the
seashore. May the wind
shift back toward
your mouth.

Here we stand in the sky

the single pink tulip on a busy road

it waits for another only to stay

alone

cars whizzing by it blows in their wind

the single pink tulip

i see you 

Nothing remains but our shared DNA.
Our signatures, inches apart
Couldn’t cross the divide that we nurtured and fed until that monster overtook and destroyed.
The pain of fangs cuts so deeply we can’t even feel numb.
Only
the Nothing