Posts for June 7, 2023 (page 9)

They say you’ve gone wonky.
You tilt to the right
as if your spine
is curved. A subtle
scoliosis. You wear a different
shoe on each foot
and then you tilt to the left.
Other women do this—
wear two unmatching shoes—
and no one notices.
It’s a mad fast world.
Some architect designed
your house as slanted as you,
like Julia Child’s kitchen.
No one notices
the height
of Julia’s counters,
but we notice you.
Frankly you’ve always
been wonky. You don’t even
know it. You were born this way.
You’re no Lady Gaga.

Residents of Kentucky,

Congratulations!

Your state is one of the states chosen to provide the clean energy needed to supply the world with email.

That’s right, the whole world’s emails every day!

Other places will be awarded the responsibility for other necessary energy, like gaming or government, but Kentucky, Ohio and Pennsylvania have been charged with providing the energy for emails.

Obviously, this requires we sheet these areas completely in solar glass, so effective immediately, the residents of the Great Commonwealth are asked to show your care for our planet.

We have many exciting opportunities for you in mining and manufacturing worldwide!  We will be stopping by soon to onboard you with your new employment position, its location, and other particulars.

We’re sure you’re looking forward to your next chapter in life, helping to save the planet!  Remember, there’s a 20kg maximum per person and, sadly, families can’t always remain together.

Thank you for your continued commitment to saving our wonderful world!

Sincerely,
Your Friends

in the jail
ministry
she found him

a gospel drum
-mer gone wrong
Joe without

a right leg
from the pep-
permints he

loved to suck.
on this hill
she tried to

build a dream
of wholeness,
erase his

past filching
high end goods,
but he only

wanted a
Visitor,
also his
GED

On Highway 25
approaching Caspar at dusk
a night cougar vaults
as we swerve into the snow ditch
his tan fur flies 

I am delivered some bad news. Fill in the blank—
Someone got a cancer diagnosis. A parent has days
to live. The child has cognitive delays. The spouse
is cheating and she looks like a keeper. The pet
won’t make it. The house has a bad foundation.

Sorry for being crass but you know the drill.
Something that devastates you. Brings you to your
too tender knees, skin soft with sweat, silent screams
of muffled mania in a throat that has closed to the size
of god’s own fist, shoved deep and unforgiving.

Except this time, it doesn’t.
Devastate you.
What I’m saying is: this time it doesn’t devastate you.
It, well, it—it’s hard to explain.

It filters into your mainframe.

You compute the calibrations needed to maintain sanity.
There’s a swift and accurate calculation of which muscles
to fire to hold a steady smile. You pull the trigger,
adjust for authentic sparkle in the eyes, push “level up”
on eagerness in the voice, mute the tremors.

You’re taking this rather well. You present a plausible
explanation for the devastation. You back up your
findings with irrefutable facts, culled from a lifetime
of pent up potential. There are pie charts, quoted
experts. Even an Instagram reel set to shitty music.

The deliverer of this devastation believes you,
believes you’re taking this rather well. And this is where
it begins to break down. The deliverer invariably
distances themselves from you, sensing a disconnect.
Perhaps subconscious. Or subcutaneous.

Somewhere where the skin still crawls. Deep in the
underbelly of our most forgotten sins. Where the
miasma of memory first congealed and the slippery
eel of disassociation began its tentative slither out
and away from an active, bleeding heart.

The sun has to be low on the horizon
and then the birds catch fire, glow.
What was before unremarkable,
now shines, pulses with an inner blaze.
The one on the far right has a red eye,
the one in the middle sparkles like glitter.
They all shine like sunlight on water,
a warm golden shimmer.

Like an ordinary Thursday afternoon
unloading groceries from the car and then
remembering love
that moment of brilliant light.

A smokey haze hangs in the late-spring air
it’s 4 am, before daybreak, 
the yard’s twinkling lights penetrate the opaque clouds
that move with precision and float with a balerina’s grace along the rolling foothills

Familiar winds carry ancient wisdom wrapped in plumes of grey smoke
and particulate in tow
The breeze caresses my face and tells me that the wild fires will soon tame
It’s hard to resist the promise, the wish of truth, when it rests on a whisper

I remember the kid
who sat behind me in class,
calling me names,
kicking me in the lower back,
spitting spitwads into my hair,
sweeping my carefully arranged
books and supplies off my desk
when he passed me,
a gleeful sneer on his face.

I remember the kids
who laughed at all the bully did–
who laughed at me–
who did not care, perhaps
because they were not 
the target.

I remember the teacher,
who saw it all,
and did nothing.
Not just one day,
but every day.

I remember my family and friends,
who offered plenty of advice to and criticism of me,
but none offered to stand by my side.

I remember them all,
and I remember the day I decided
what to do with a bully.

sun bleached thistle
am I or the mirror
worn?