stump speech #5
does not give a fuck
he can only tell a lie
twenty tweny four
overwhelmed with nowthings tasks duties obligations with deadlines I asked for this well not this quite this way big surprise I continue to never recognize its startling appearance all the same it arrives in a billowy shape fuzzily outlined as just what I requested
funny how that keeps happening
on Sunday the pause went on too long and I imagined I’d not enough to do with myself
I play the fool often even after so many years forgetting despite past lessons standing
like sentries along the dayshape of my memoried life
as an artist I hold regular exhibits resplendent this gallery of my past
today I add another canvas
hung on the hook of reminder to myself I asked for this challenge to remain living
overflowing with fullness things I can hold in my hand
a future in every experience days lifemarch hung level along the walls of this galleried life
I’ve met this disease
Like a scrap of china my nephew’s first permanent
tooth juts from his pink gum. I switch off news
of implicent American Civil War. I whip up
macaroni salad & blast mariachi to celebrate
his immaculate flowering. Tomorrow, I’ll again
stalk injustice like a lioness on the savannah.
Although I peer into threat of an atomic inferno,
I still manage to blossom & stomp. Roco’s cancer
is in remission. Camille’s lost Springer whines
at the screen door. We are not yet in flak jackets.
Our guts are not yet bleeding from our bellies.
Our skin – for now – is still warm & intact.
Would trade a month of mud
for a day of cloudless sky.
How I hate wet grass on my legs.
Fire, yes, of violent heat oozes
volcanic surface splitting sodden air,
molten explosions 10 miles away.
Yet here, water gushes from the sky,
liquid grace drips from ferny branches,
and we wade, tall boots seeking dry land.
When You Leave
Today it is July and a heatstroke cornered makes
progress slow and sleepy in a parking lot,
my heart goes with eastbound cars
when you leave. I want to love you
with your mind turned off, in your skin
you say is white—
I say Cherokee:
because I know your toes,
I know your stillness
like the trees, your laughter leveling forests,
like the kissing wind against my knees.
Lay down your winter coat, pick up your skin,
the faucet running, children will not hear you coming.
Done with small feasts and narrow steps—
tonight your night.
Leave your husbands without regret—
leave on the light.
