Posts for June 7, 2023 (page 6)

I want to be like Muriel.  

She comes to the animal shelter
to love on cats.  Some of them
are crooked, listing to one side,
slow in getting up, lying down,
but purring in the sun bathing
them through wide windows.  

Muriel lists, too, all ninety pounds
of her.  One shoulder sits lower
than the other, bones burst sharp
through skin embroidered with
wrinkles & dappled with age
spots, hair grey as oysters, pearled
with slivers of silver, a shaggy
moon in the making.  

The shelter cats have faith
that food will come every morning,
every evening, that love will be
doled out by a variety of palms
& fingers & crooning voices,
that night & day will take turns.  

Muriel has faith, too, that she will
amble in every Friday evening,
bend her tired body into sitting
on the floor, curl it around brown
tabbies & calicoes, sometimes nap
on cat beds, breath rising & falling
to the vibrato of felines vibrating
with contentedness.  

If I live to be eighty, I want to wind
my way through the happy cats I’ve
held for hours, mosey out the shelter
door, & stroll to my car under the night
sky, imbibing the stars whose light
comes to us again & again.  

There was a battlefield
where RED came charging — a blur, a force!
BLUE hovered, expanding itself
airborne like volcanic ash
cloud-like billowing
wide and fast
heading straight for the
arrogant RED riots of flame
and bubbling gush splattering with abandon

Closing in
both claiming dominance
through every gesture
radiance electrified
with each vanquishing howl
clawing through ground
letting loose
meeting full on
to settle the dispute

But as each neared the other
they stopped short of touching
the scene steadied
a kind of perfection came into view
no miracles, just something held right
for a moment, an instant, a blink in time    

The hot lava cooled
as RED drew to a full stop
where ever it had flooded
in its wake were saturated fields
vibrant and alive 

The BLUE billows
congealed harmoniously
defining the infinite
variations of ultramarine, manganese
and cobalt specks
pierced space
with their soft edges
fluttering  

Just the right amount of RED
the right amount of BLUE
each held their own
faced each other
and called a truce.

“You have to pay to get out of going through all

these things twice.” —Bob Dylan

As a child, I had fever dreams

about endlessness,

my bed cover

a vast country

I could never explore all of.

Circle dreams

with no way out.

A vague memory

of a Shel Silverstein poem

about some awful

ritual performed regularly,

like having your brains sifted.

I was a sick child,

often having blood taken,

so I came to know

the needle would

always come again

eventually.

Now I get Botox injections

for pain management,

letting them give me

three months worth of headaches

all at once

to get it over with,

about thirty jabs

all over my head.

Deja vu makes me nauseous.

So do thoughts of an afterlife,

the sense that any of this

has happened before

or might happen again,

a dread of

days without end.

Yeats believed that history

repeats itself

in gyres,

resetting every

2,000 years.

The end of Stephen King’s

Dark Tower series

rings true for me

as the hero

is trapped

in an endless loop

that just restarts

every time it ends.

Nameless phantom,

will I ever truly know you?

Or will you always just be

a heightened anxiety

about the

doctor and the dentist,

something seen

out of the corner of my eye

that disappears

when I try to focus?

the first time you didn’t drive me back to mine
you pulled me through the doorway to kiss me one last time
a month later i stayed over because you wanted me again
in the morning you left before me like a one night stand

i walked out for the first time on my own
past all of your sleeping friends
sometimes i’m stupid enough to think if i’d made your bed it would’ve made a difference
and trust me i know why i just smothered you all the time

you say you don’t know why you keep trying
while i’m on the phone crying
you’re the one who handed me the cup and took it away when i drank too much

i wonder if you’ll ditch her on her birthday
maybe now you can say all the things you could never say
when you called me your soulmate i knew you’d never die on that hill
i’ve never said anything bad about you and i never will

my daughter sent a photo  
     she told us it looks like Mars
an orangish day, rather hazy
as if she’d used a filter on her camera
my prayers for her don’t usually include
     “may she breathe clean air”
though today, well, appropriate
so I throw that one up
along with a few others
questioning the implications, our collective behaviors
all the reasons why and how and if
hoping for a blue sky soon

Man: I was in the Army.
Woman: Me too!

Man: Well, I didn’t sit in some cushy office; I drove them big, swinging dick Army trucks.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, every week I put on my battle rattle, and marched ass-deep into the woods.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, when I rucked, I humped over a hundred pounds of shit on my back.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, on marches, I was toting the M249 SAW machine gun, not that toy, the M16.
Woman: Me too

Man: Well, I fired grenade launchers and ATWs, stuff that made men shit their britches.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, I went with guys to the field  for weeks, months no matter rain, snow, or heat.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, I slept in tents, washed my ass with baby wipes, and ate chow from MREs.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, I worked with thousands of troops on a mulitnational training mission overseas.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, once my sergeants took me alone and shook the walls  for “corrective training.”
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, I came out of there holding my head, ears ringing, walking sideways.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, the Army trained me to be brave, so I wasn’t scared to die for my country.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, I come close, but I was ready to kill some bastards to come home alive.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, because of all the shit I seen and did as a soldier, I’m now a disabled veteran.
Woman: Me too.

Man: Well, what did you do that was so tough?
Woman: 

Intoxicate
yourself 
out of love 
and anything 
that might remotely
be called a song
is to become 
a machine 

My newer-cheaply-made-in-China underwear is holy.
Jockey’s my go-to brand for 40 years
now, spring holes that cannot be repaired.
Made of cotton with bands that used to withstand
old washing machines, hot water and toxic detergents,
disintegrate into over-stretched, ill-fitting,
falling down or twisting around garments
after just a few washings. I tried other names,
the results same or worse, all because greed
says make shit shitty cause shitty shit can’t be fixed
and because men don’t seem to care any more
about the quality of my underwear.  

Even though I try not to hoard
I put away things I may be able to use again.
I have five or six pairs, leftover from 15 years ago,
I brought out of storage, because I’m not as fat
today as I was last year. These stored bikini’s
barely fit, but at least they don’t put me in a snit.
Even the elastic still has binding powers to it.
You know, not dry-rotted, like the ones I saved
from when I was young, dumb, still having the flow.
Those were crackling and had to go,
but FYI they had no holes.  

Anyone out there make custom cotton briefs
that’ll last, at the least, til the day I die
because I don’t want to ever have to buy
another pair of shitty underwear?

You began with my eyes,
Felt like an ink pen exploding,
followed by lasers, surgeries,
shots in my eyes.    All
to save my vision.   Jim
called our girls unbeknownst 
to me, telling them I was going
BLIND!

Next you came for my hands.
No longer can I hold a pen to
sign my name. I struggle
cutting vegetables to cook,
opening jars and cracker wrappers.
Feeling and strength are dwindling.
I burn and cut myself unaware.

A cane is needed for balance.
you robbed the feeling from 
my feet causing me to bumble
and stumble like an old lady.

Diagnosed forty years ago with Type 1
I feared I would lose my toes or legs,
kidneys or have a stroke.      Not
my sight, feeling in my hands and 
feet and now you have clutches on
my bladder. 28 UTIs in 7 months.
Doctor says nerves and muscles
not working to empty.

I hate you for stealing bits of me
making my world smaller and smaller
Can’t walk my Clancy around the block.
Gave up cooking. No night driving.
Need large print to read.     But somehow,
I keep plugging away adapting, moving
forward one step at a time,
stopping the STEAL.

Approaches me in the airport
and throws a black cloth bag
over my head and takes me away,
I say, “I’m just a woman
standing in an airport terminal
trying to fly to Cincinnati!”
They escort me into a car
which drives to an empty
warehouse across town.
Shackled in the backseat,
I say, “Please, don’t hurt me,
my family isnt well off and 
couldn’t afford the medical bills!”
They push me inside
and into a poor quality
office chair with wheels.
Spinning circles,
I say, “I’ll give you anything!
Money! My house! My first
edition copy of Little Women!”
The Russian Mob pauses 
at this new information.
He says, ” What’s your favorite
quote?” And stands before me.
I say, “But do you love him?
I think I care more to be loved.
I want to be loved.
That is not the same as loving.”
He rips the bag from my head.
“Women, they have minds,
and they have souls,
as well as just hearts.”
He touches my forehead
with two fingers and then
my chest.
He says, “Tell me the truth.”
I say, “I’m so lonely. And 
all I want is to go home.”
He caresses my cheek,
tilting my head up.
“Then go home.”