Three sisters- once verdant,
erect queens of new but
tenacious roots,
protected by moats it took us
days to dig,
willed themselves through
winter in disgraceful
tatters, their needles disintegrating
brown leather burned by
brutal winds,
but hope erupts slowly,
creeps greenly from their
fingertips steadily toward
their centers,
each restored cell, a mercy.
My bankvault skull, screwed shut, up, and over,
Time to start over with a clean ledger,
mark columns of numbers
neatly zero out last month’s balance.
Clear,
concise,
captured.
Black marks etched in linen paper
the way my typewriter used to do,
duck,
dodge
to the edge,
and when the bell rings, the fighter
comes out of his corner to box again.
I write checks, letters, lists.
I invoice the minutes of my day
in one tenth increments,
divide days by descimal points.
Today’s a writing day
when I write to you,
the first of the month of June.
— Happy LexPoMo 2023
Life Insurance
I’m surprised the woman didn’t ask me
about my last bowl movement
since she asked everything else
she could possibly ask. The agent
told me not to give information
unless I was asked so I didn’t describe
in brown-tinged detail the results
of my latest trip to the bathroom
although I told her personal things
I won’t mention here unless you’d be willing
to give me a new policy I will never outlive.
Confirmed again is the Cherophobe
let down by another decision divine;
found a glimmer of lasting peace
to outshine the defensive pessimist.
Problem is an open heart is as firelight
in a forest full of bandits,
the moon suspended like a bloody hangnail–
what’s the use of praying anymore?
The Devil always comes.
Any one strife can be coped with, dealt with,
life’s good, I’m proud of who I am
until a rogue convergence of travesty
threatens to capsize the ship.
I’m starting to hear that wilderness voice;
one of Shakespeare’s witches
crying warnings of something wicked.
It’s only a matter of time.
The Devil always comes.
The man who doesn’t care if you hate him
will not take care that you don’t
and when he sees light he won’t admit he lacks
his mission becomes to destroy.
If no one stands ready to defend,
emotional erosion will take hold.
It shouldn’t ever get very far
but I guess I’ve always needed a villain and
the Devil always comes.
Then hope unleashes it’s own vicious terror
within the overwhelming desire to belong.
Barbed beauty constricts the heart
while begging an impossible question.
If two people are meant to be soulmates, what happens
if one of them isn’t listening?
Not that I can ever broach that topic,
I seem to belong to only one.
The Devil always comes.
Sorrow and Malice run amok in a space
where the spirit is always drained.
Hard to get a step ahead
when the knees are constantly weak.
You want to cry out, but God
has never been a vending machine,
can’t force Him to deliver on His promises–
I have faith in one thing.
The Devil always comes.
Enveloped by it all
on myself I must rely
where some light hasn’t died.
Why the turmoil? Evil doesn’t need
to fight for what’s already lost.
What are we trying to hold back?
This energy, invincible clarity, my potential;
there must be a damn good reason
that the Devil always comes.
Wind cups your face like
hands as they’d hold bursting buds,
water made molten
by sun, memories
strung in the creases of palms —
like something precious.
I shouldn’t be so worried about a hawk.
I keep dreaming of her falling from the sky
barreling and twisting with wings spread,
careening so fast her red tail flashes by
and fills my vision with feathers
that make me think of rust and blood.
My stomach is in knots as I drive
past her regular hunting spot
to find the perch empty again.
I know it’s silly. To worry.
She’s wild. She’s just moved on,
irritated after an eager farmer
bush hogged all the broom sage down
and the tasty little field mice
took off for better cover.
I’m worried about her,
a broad shouldered red tailed beauty
out there in the air on her own.
Love is free
Love is the key
That makes the world turn
Love is the key
That makes the world learn
Love is the key
Love sets us free
I swore that last year was the last one
Until this year they said it was the final one
So last night I broke down and bought two
Hoping for some good final memories
My current favorite
I’m standing with my deadhead cop friend
(true fact!)
in the promenade between sets
and she walks up and says, Hey Mark
wearing a pair of olive green overalls
and nothing else
I was grateful
is the kind of thought that enters my mind
when I’m trying to sleep, when sleep seems like a miracle
or a magic trick, and don’t get me started
on what happens when I try to count sheep, fine,
I’ll tell you that the sheep turn to words
wandering in all directions as my brain and body
have awkward conversations about difficult
or pointless topics and I worry that if I succeed
at falling asleep I will sleep through
my one shot at heroism or immortality
like there’s a child nearby poised to be pushed
out of the way of an onrushing car
or maybe the words of my one great poem
have chosen this evening to hit me
like lightning but instead of gathering them
I’ll have dreams that I won’t remember,
and of course these worries keep me
from falling asleep, though they don’t quite
keep me awake, just idling at the intersection
of yawn and yawp, a wild creature fighting
a mild teacher for the wheel, which locks up,
along with the brakes, and in the headlights a child
who turns out to be me, to, so I guess I’ve fallen
asleep after all, fallen for that old trick
of the imagination which says I can be the hero
as well as the child as well as the one steering,
each of my three hearts filled with anticipation
for sunrise which arrives like a magic word
and all the birds the audience watched fly away
hide now under the magician’s hat, which they lift
up, up, up, sunrise a magic word and a floating hat.
