Posts for June 3, 2024 (page 11)

[muted burgundy jazz set]

Please, Dr. Higgins, don’t start. I’m not         asleep yet.

(faint red square pre-drawn on roof)

It’ll be         alright, baby. We’re on a schedule.

You are under arrest, sir.

All I did was film what was happening.

(bound to self metallic)

You were saying some nasty words, as well.

I don’t        remember that at all.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t         happen.

[saxophone gold jazz set]

Then they made me look ina  fisheye at my own puckering liver.

<child’s handwriting, true:> Once there was a YOU.
He liked me so he        squeezed
his         body
onto
mine and was          super nice
to          me.

[cool blue atmospheric wash]

Then she told me I sat         really well. It barely hurt.

And who will be picking you up from the police station?

A home invasion, but all they        took was a first grade composition notebook.

Are you         asleep yet? We finished the         procedure.

Still gold in the trees
and last night at dusk
in the top of the tallest one
birds alit and took off
their own lives in progress
right alongside mine.
They’re unaware of my pain
as I am unaware of theirs.
We share this.

my erection is the Philosophers Stone

I lost myself in the weight
of an unmoved mountain,
having failed to find the faith.

A volcanic thrust
in my limbs and throat.

I lost myself in the fire
of instant words fresh
from the molten earth.

Like stopping flood waters
with a screen door.

I lost myself in the flow
of first thought,
in the waves of reaction.

Just a moment and the marks
are left on the hardwood floor.
The ash hangs from the door frames.
The outlines of loved ones stand out
on the stained charred walls.

The pinks and whites of azaleas

lie in the imagined future, the when

where children’s play will reverberate

while lovers discreetly hold hands.

In this when is a place of women only,

the only sound speechless falling snow

as it erases all other colors, replaces

a lover’s hand with an umbrella shaft.

There are no men to warm the night,

to quicken children not to be born.

The year could be any, to come or recall,

the season another dark winter of war.

(after the painting, “Nezu Shrine,” by Tsuchiya Koitsu)

We sailed to Havana, Cuba,
Across the Florida Straits,
Ariving at La Habana Harbor,
A mystifying island of uncertain fate.

We toured throughout Havana,
The people were gracious and kind,
Making a lunch stop at La Floridita,
Papa’s favorite spot to unwind.

We traveled to Finca Vigia,
Hemingway’s lookout estate,
His tropical island get-a-way,
Where composing was his fate.

His library was enshrined,
And what a gorgeous view,
The backdrop picturesque,
And the sky was solid blue.

His fishing boat the Pilar,
Was dry-docked down the hill,
Standing right beside it,
Hard to imagine this was real.

We enjoyed Havana’s nightlife,
At Club Parisienne, 
The entertainment among the finest,
We had heard or seen.

An early morning in Old Havana,
Took us back in time,
The magnificent colonial structures,
And hearing the cathedral chimes.

The classic cars were a sight to see,
Cruising down the street,
What an unforgetable trip,
Visiting Hemingway’s retreat.

As the boat set out to sea,
We gestured our goodbye,
Sailing past Morro Castle,
Under the blue Havana sky.

Locked and loaded
DJ Trump captured
minds

Anxiety—
Clawing at my brain like a cat scratches upholstery
Shredding my nerves and
Gouging my sanity
Until all that remains is a tangle of loose threads
And a knot of panic too tight to unravel

A relationship is an unbroken line, steep, sweet, rolling, reeling, knotted or devoted, long and meandering, faint or grooved, jagged or soft, spirited or not, straight or spiral complicated, from infinity (even if we’ve just met) to this moment.