Strawberry Moon
The light drips
Sweet
Into my fingers
I leave the rest of me
In shadows, curving
Around the dappling
Glowing
Jam-pink moon shine
And for once I am still
The light drips
Sweet
Into my fingers
I leave the rest of me
In shadows, curving
Around the dappling
Glowing
Jam-pink moon shine
And for once I am still
Walking a path along parallel exact invert canyons
clinging to life by toes on a continuous narrow ledge
opposing canyon wall grows near at times mirrored
allowing the slightest touch from a stranger on adjacent wall to support
Worth the risk to reach out in the vertigo of the moment
at time walls almost colliding
allowing an embrace of safety
yet the crevasse bellow pulls to the unknown
In the chance for lasting embrace the greater reward
greater than the risk of the fall
worth the known temporary surety
imagined in dreams
Dreams two dimensional
dreams an internal deception
Dreams of those willing to chance
loose perception of reality, what is trusted
and if not oneself, who?
among the multitudes of stranger/friends
Circles
I want to do my physical therapy exercises
because I’ve lost my ability to move fluidly,
but don’t because the floor needs vacuuming,
but don’t because vacuuming is often dangerous—
busted shins and pulled muscles plus the chance
of elevated BP from cleaning up after people
capable of cleaning up after themselves—
then there’s the issue of time and how long it takes
to clean one room improperly, meaning just vacuuming
and the issue of picking up food and dirt that are out of place.
Food belongs on a plate or in a mouth not scattered
beneath the chairs and on the floor which indicates
I’m missing my mouth more and more and the dirt,
real barn and yard dirt belong outside
and then there’s all the hair that’s down there
from me and my mate, because the pets are all dead,
which means I’m losing it, hair, not my mind,
but I could be and chances are I wouldn’t know it
because after all, delusional or denial thinking
are ways that help make my life more pleasing.
My porch light’s on since early this morning when the cat
was bored and wanted to fight me so I lured him
to the window with the promise of birds before sunrise.
By the front door a hand drops three pieces of garbage.
I shuffle through but leave them in the mailbox to multiply,
letting the trash pile up until something must be done.
Edges once black turn to gray despite all my hard work
and I realize that the mulch needs turning over,
some refreshing by someone, but it’s not going to be me.
They say that light under the basket
still shines, though I can’t see justice
through tight weaves of social woes,
so, I keep planting fruit, hoe digging
deep soil, hope waiting for the lantern
steeping under the basket to shine free.
Wet ducks act like dogs – they scratch their head with their foot
A loaf of feathers, damp greens, browns, streaks like black soot
They shake droplets from tails and from well-meaning passers-by
fetch breadcrumbs, thought I admit I prefer them cooked
Breast scored, rendered slow with sour cherries from Prague
Or crackling wings paired with sharp sheep’s milk cheese or a catalouge
of herbs, or preserved in a cassoulet holding court with sausauges
or the head, dehydrated to a crisp as a treat for my own dog.
I laughed when you said you thought I was trying to scare you off when we first met.
I joked that maybe that was me baring my true self, and that my current disposition is the result of a concerted effort to restrain it.
That I am not (thank god) Bukowski, there are no bluebirds in my soul.
Mine lives outside where bluebirds belong, Singing sweetly as can be reasonably expected by its peers.
Inside me (and I sort of presume inside everyone) must live some kind of feral goblin,
Who craves caterwauling, needs to sometimes spout gibberish.
So next time you ask
Why are you yelling?
What are you doing?
Know the answer deep in my heart is this:
*goblin noises*
