Haiku
sky can’t make up her
mind, small wonder I’m rattled
by worn path’s branching
At 5 AM this morning the moon was
a bowl of shimmering butterscotch
pudding jiggling around an indigo sky–
I saw three of them.
It’s not hitting that line. That gap.
It’s not good distance or step putts.
Did you know we play disc golf?
Instagram does.
Throw ins. Trick shots. Aces.
No, it’s not because my fiancé plays.
It’s not the way Ivy chases discs
in the backyard. Drool pooling,
tail wagging, bouncy girl.
It’s not winning.
It’s certainly not store credit.
Did I mention it’s not the ticks?
Snakes the size of Texas.
It’s not even brunch after morning rounds.
There’s just something about chains–
the sound of Abra surprising herself.
The way Chris pursues what he loves.
Don’t tell anyone, but
I think it’s because I like it.
Of course, you are on my mind, Allen Ginsberg, with the full
moon in Sagittarius coming on your birthday.
Across the roofs & through the trees, music splashes & spills
from the confines of the harness track around the corner with songs
about despair & second chances & whiskey, or rather, bourbon, because
we are in Kentucky.
I imagine you, bearded & bespectacled, with your stars
& stripes top hat a bit early for the holidy, swaying, floating, not singing
along but chanting softly about sunflowers.
You are solemn grace amidst the bustle; you are solace in a storm.
You throw not so subtle side eye as the guy who looks
like Buddy Holly bumps into you.
His girl, Mary Tyler Moore, grabs a thread & walks away
toward Garcia Lorca who shakes his head relentlessly after a swig of
watermelon pucker from his sterling silver flask.
Walt Whitman, harnessed in studded black leather, has climbed
the fence, tonight not lonely, hand in hand with the ball-gagged bagboy
just finished another shift stocking avocados at Whole Foods.
Wandering the fields with a midnight lace parasol & case like a vintage cigarette
girl, Emily Dickinson silently sells trinkets & t-shirts through the crowd.
I saw you, Allen Ginsberg, asking questions of each. Do you want
to destroy my sutra? Where are you going after this? Do you have an extra moonstone? Selenite will do. Why such gloom?
Eventually, the music softens & the Strawberry Moon emboldens.
I sit on my front porch watching people, interlopers, who do not live
here, come to their cars to head home or off to a hotel for the night, only
to return, invade, again tomorrow.
I wait for you, Allen Ginsberg. I ask aloud, Have you left the festival yet?
The aging roses & usually spry impatiens do not answer; the caged
mandevilla & windchimes sway in the breeze.
I see you down the street, coming with intention. You glisten
under streetlights, a beacon through the haze. Come sit a spell.
We have plenty of wild strawberries in the front beds to match
the moon. What shall your intention be?
Each morning, I leave the dog to his errands.
He is routine and undemanding, understanding
of my low capacity to his needs
Starla, my shadow, my love, she rests feline chin
upon the sun-warmed threshold and knows
this
is her destiny. she rolls
a gaze to me, one paw in reach, one claw in grasp
to gently tousle my leg hair.
We wait like this, together.
Please
Let me know my rights to this moment, claws out but capable of
so much delight
inalienable &
alive
at a spring
in sweltering Florida
people laughing
in crystal clear water
I decided
right then
that someday
I was going
to check out
another time
in the middle
of another hot summer
standing in line
to pay for gas
in a car that
I was behind
on payments
that it might
be worth it
to go then
then later
working third shift
in a cooler
stocking dairy products
I wanted to then
lately
I can feel it
on the edge
trying to seep through
and I’m so tired
let’s just hope
there’s always
just enough of me
left
to see behind
that warm
welcoming
void
They’re signing off the last line of the will
as I ruminate over which creamsicle peach dye
to soak my hair when I get bored; a meditation
about my body’s resentment for living.
I’m learning to drive and calling out how many kids
I could hit and run. Instead I kill my African violets
with abundant love. Kill time annoying the suburbs
singing teenage rants of this summer’s lazy misery.
I grew up without consciousness, I came into
myself, now I am nothing more than vaporous sunset
dissolving into a trick of the light, this apathetic body
is ascetic and not something worth mentioning.
Photographical eyes, detached head, I live above
plastic trees and people made of things beyond blood
and bone, and their birdcage homes. Humans live in
darkness most of the time, crawling like infants.
This is a stupid way to live, like the dead underground,
surviving off the IV tap of manmade creek water.
I need new scenery, so daily in the evening I trespass,
wander the neighborhoods and spectate ghost-like.
My wealth is only counted by potted flowers,
and yet I have money for pointless musings: adorn
my face with sharp objects like a crow collecting
beautiful things, painful things, things.
yes, your mom & I used to walk together
before—-
She pauses, & the silence carries the weight of a coffin.
When I was 4
A bequeathing to the future
In essence you are always leaving a garden, as a metaphor
You are constantly shaping everything
And watering and pruning
You are only meant for making beauty
Nourishing the right places
But don’t forget
A garden is for right now
You’re shaping it
You’re changing it
You’re effecting it
For your benefit
